Christmas came and went

And as we unwrapped our gifts

We unraveled ourselves,

Like brittle paper and sharp bows

Scattered among tags labeled with lies,

Lies we say are just make believe

Casting doubt on all we ever felt.

Postage returned for insufficient love

A currency foreign to your fingers

Splotchy with dark stains

Cast against electric blue nails

Reflecting the uneven attention

Between yourself and your art

Never stopping to see

That the light from your face

Your laughter

Your very enthusiasm

Could find home in the Louvre.