24/10/2025
| The Unfinished Portrait
by the Amber-eyed Man
I'm not a writer—I'm no good with words.
I use the pen to draw, not to write love letters.
I create my art through the brush tip on different papers,
For it's the only way to express my love for her—in embers.
For quite a long time, I’ve tried to paint her ethereal beauty.
I was struck by her smile whenever she begins to write.
Always mesmerized by how she looks—so in love with what she's doing—
I just wish I could be the poem or the story she's now writing.
I've always tried to read her series of poems.
I couldn't believe how whipped I am by her sagacity.
The way she tells enchanting stories about this man with amber orbs—
I can't help but imagine she’s thinking of me.
As I read the poet’s name, I thought to continue her portrait.
But I felt someone gazing at me, and my brows furrowed at the book.
Just then, my jaw dropped—to see a shadow of her walking away,
Wiping her tears.
I immediately hid the book and reached for my canvas.
I thought to draw her while I could still see her beauty clearly.
Yet for the nth time, I still couldn’t finish painting her completely.
I think I’ll never finish a portrait while she is hurting.
Because every time I catch a glimpse of her,
My heart sinks, asking—why is she crying?
Again, I end up with her unfinished portrait,
Unable to complete the strokes of her lonely pair of orbs.
I read in her poem that she wishes to become the poem, not the poet.
She thinks she’ll be loved more if she becomes the verse.
But she doesn’t know—she is my most favorite subject on canvas.
I may not know how to weave her beautiful letters,
But I will always be the man willing to paint her—
Even if I always end up
With her unfinished portrait.
Words by: Anonymous
