Under
a ceramic sky, pottery-glaze-blue cracked by clouds
artists' fingers fuse. Lips touch.
They are two curved lines bound by symmetry.

"I am becoming more and more like last summer."

Acidic cynic and sweet aesthete beneath
an ancient mosaic
stained by blueberry wars and disregard.
It's the colour of boys and sadness.

"I often find you wishing you were a metaphor."

Secrets are meant to be uncovered and discovered
and, so,
are destroyed.
They break into pieces and form goodbyes.

"We are unfinished, you know."
"I know."

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A/N: This may be one of those poems that's hard to understand, but it may make it easier if I tell you it's about two boys. "Curved lines" refers both to lips and to the boys themselves, who don't conform to the "symmetry" of the world.

I need to stop with the stupid nature descriptions, colour associations, and language tool references. There's got to be more out there to write about in poems.