Am I that temporary?
You've painted on me,
quaint strokes a million times over,
indelible hues seeping and clinging to fibers
memories sure to be retained,
finishing the piece with your blade
scars running deep into the paper

I look over at you,
washed anew,
because apparently my marks can fade

The art critic looks at me, says,
"Now that's how you know a heart has been broken."

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