Not Quite A Masterpiece

The clouds in the sky were splotchy, scraped around too thin
and there were too many colors in your eyes.
I think the shadows were a bit deeper than I expected,
your face was so many hues of violet, and I realize
now the many things I could have said,
the better words, the
lines a poet might have conjured.
You were splashed all with crimson like the
uneven tracks of something injured in the snow –
but I didn’t know. I didn’t know what
could have caused you so much pain,
but the reflection was right there, immortalized:
amateur at best, honest at worst,
staring right back at me from the riot in your eyes.

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