The foolish canvas

they believed love’s promise was theirs alone,
each one convinced
they’d be the one to change the game.
but step back,
see them now,
brushstrokes on the same relentless canvas.

Fernande, a shadow in charcoal strokes,
her silhouette too thin against the cold canvas,
dreamed her love could fill the negative space
in a portrait where he barely sketched her in.
a muted gray smudge,
lost between the lines he never finished,
as if she could outrun the punchline,
ha!

Eva, soft as pastels fading at the edges,
thought love was painted in gentle hues.
her sweetness dissolved into pale watermarks,
a smear of tenderness the canvas rejected.
love laughed in her face,
a cruel smear,
then watched her waste away.

their hues bleed together,
sorrows overlapping in unintended harmony.

Olga, swirling in violent arcs of red and purple,
spun her ballerina moves,
a tempest of passion that cut across the frame.
she danced,
even as the canvas tore beneath her feet,
her bleeding hands gripping a dream
no brush could ever hold.

Marie-Thérèse, golden and shimmering,
dazzled in bright, reckless yellows.
her youth burned across the canvas,
vivid and fleeting.
“youth is a joke, kid,” the colors whispered,
“it just makes you easier to chew.”
she was gone,
swallowed whole by the shadows,
before she even realised.

Dora, etched in heavy lines and dark shades,
wore her defiance like cracked varnish.
she saw the fissures spreading across the wall,
but tried to seal them with her tears,
a futile restoration, destined to fail.
her fractured image stood firm,
until it finally crumbled.

Françoise, sharp as a palette knife,
carved her story into the edges of the canvas.
she knew the game was rigged,
but she walked away with her scars—
and a sliver of pride.
the smart ones always leave,
but they leave a piece of themselves behind,
don’t they?

Genevieve penned verses in invisible ink,
words evaporating before they touched the page.
she sang sonnets to an empty gallery,
but silence is just the echo of indifference,
a blank canvas that never held her dreams.

Jacqueline, drowning in devotion,
poured herself into the colours,
layer upon layer of false hope.
her blues deepened, her reds darkened,
until the weight of it pulled her under.
her reward?
a shadow at the edge of the painting,
a shape no one cared to notice.

they all chased love,
an impossible abstraction,
dogs chasing cars,
fools who didn’t realise
the engine would crush them
if they ever caught it.

but oh, there was a single brush of light,
a glint of gold leaf under peeling paint,
when love felt almost gentle, almost real,
a whispered promise trapped beneath the glaze.

and yet, here i stand,
palette in hand,
a self-portrait blurred by trembling strokes,
believing i might mix a new colour,
one that won’t fade like all the rest.

we all think we’re the exception,
the masterstroke in a flawed design,
as if we could redraw the lines,
but perhaps the joke’s on me,
thinking i could be anything but another shade
in love’s indifferent masterpiece.

step back now,
observe the painting in full view:
love never slowed, never inquired,
and it sure as hell won’t turn around
to admire the mess it left behind.