And brush strokes bold, Yet soft as a whisper, The work of a feminine hand.

Caught in the still life, Surrounded by shadows, Or lost in a background of blue.

If I were a painting, My price would be pain, And the artist would have to be you.

I imagine the colors, would all run together, If you ever allowed me to cry.

So dont paint the tears, Just let me remember, Me without you in my eyes.

Its only the frame, That holds me together, Or else I'd be falling apart.