my blood pigments the canvas with clearness

my tears varnish it through, glazing my work

my sweat drops in swift strokes but is

my seat taken with some pretty girl? Irked.

her scent wafts through the air, infecting it

her leaked contamination is spread out

her desk, no mine, that is mine albeit

I would be sick, sickened sweet, either route

.

.

.

occasional doodles enter my mind

whenever the urges begin to start

my bright feelings are free to flow behind

her shared heart

my blood pigments her with fever-like blush 

my tears varnish us, not good, not bad, strong

my sweat brushes her near forehead yet when I go to

my canvas, something is wrong 

the mind is blank

the hands are still

the boat has sank

I can’t… I will

.

.

.

just like an infected ligament

she has been cut off, presently away

sitting there stiff but nearby, the tint 

of blood, sweat, and tears are clearly opaque