The Paintbrush
The paintbrush Abandoned in mud, beside a chain a chain link fence, where are you? My bristles once wet with paint; now dry and immobile. I was once loved, a delicate hand guiding me across a canvas, creating art that would one day leave their small bedroom. What was it again? Maybe the ocean, although I had never tasted the air, perfumed with salt and seaweed or heard waves crashing against jagged rocks. Maybe the sky? I saw clouds through small windows like tiny sections of heaven, tore out and plastered on your wall. sunlight bleached softly on my body, my handle splatted with charcoal, sapphire, emerald. What was it again? I was part of a masterpiece, if only I could remember. I could remember you, you who held me like I would break at any moment, you who cared for me like a prized possession. Was it your birthday, or mine? I belong to a new entity now, ...