by Edward Hall

Created on: April 20, 2008

Look. All these years, miles, triumphs and
tragedies that are written across my face
and still, to you, I am a blank canvas
waiting for you to paint me.

The bull dog ugly lines, the interesting
scars, the creases you could lay a pencil in,
do they represent character or debauchery?
You decide, I am a blank canvas, paint me.

The walnut Cherokee-brown eyes that look at you?
Look into them and tell me what you see;
intelligence, empathy, or unchecked lust?
You decide, I am a blank canvas, paint me.

That crooked grin? What's it mean? Cynicism,
good nature, friendliness or rapine?
Or is it, like Bogart, one of my lips will not move?
You decide, I am a blank canvas, paint me.

I have come the long way around to you
and you dallied and roamed on your way to me.
So both of us wear our lives on our faces
and still we are blank canvases one for the other.

I will decide the significance of that dimple
there in the middle of your chin while you
decide what that scar above my eye brow means
and then we will paint our meaning one upon the other.

Blank canvases both.

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