Still.

My eyelids used to be canvases

for my imagination.

Purples and blues,

in several different hues,

would spread like fireworks.

Formless and flawless

they would paint rivers

turned mountains

turned smiles.

O, the colors have set.

The varnish is binding.

This art, each time my eyes shutter.

After all of this time,

despite sensibility,

your eyes.

You.

Still.