I can write my years in moons just by counting white tides under the stars.

I can paint my portrait with dew just by swinging my hair and spattering the sky.

I can tell my life with violins by rushing nimble bows over my veins.

It is just your name looming like distant thunder that I cannot write.

It is your face as evanescent in my heart’s darkest chambers as a lightning strike that I am not able to paint.