Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke

I never told you that I loved you.
I just said that I might.
And I think I do.
Mostly.

Apart from that thing that you do.

You know.

That thing.

With the eyes.

The Dali eyes that melt time over place,
So I’m lost between both.
Or those Escher eyes that stop me going up.
Or down.

So I just stay.

But then the Warhol eyes scream colour at me.
Margritte eyes smother me.
Picasso eyes carve me to pieces.

And I’m scared.

To stay.

To go.

Bring back my Monet eyes,
My Rembrandt, Degas and Renoir eyes.
And then I might say
That I do.