Your life is a fresco
that one day will belong in a museum.
Its beauty is compelling to look at,
but I no longer can.
Because I’m in the background
becoming more concealed by the hour.
I ought to pay homage to a masterpiece,
but I’m too much of a coward.
The foreground is what you’re painting;
the past shares only the same sky.
All the strokes between now and then
make it harder to see the tears in my eyes.
When you finally hang it up
and have a finished product to display,
I’ll be the fertilizer of fulfilled dreams
spread on a forgotten day.