You stepped out of a Michelangelo-- sculpted hands, arms, and back.

I watched your jaw hang open as you played the drums, 

like that snare made you a singer.

The sun danced on your cheekbones, 

while your smile beamed bright enough to light up a cathedral.  

And I stood in the doorway with my head hung low.

Next to you, the sun wasn't even as bright.  

I scrubbed the walls until they sparkled.

I sewed patches into the rips of your jeans. 

I tied a bandage around your knee when you couldn't stand.

My love sat on display.

But like the day-old coffee in your cup, it wasn't fresh or hot anymore.

It got cold, dull, and useless, like you and me.

I made you my temple and begged for a seat in the pews.

Tears welled in my eyes and spilled to the floor.

While I cleaned up the mess, 

you looked around the house I built, 

seeing yourself in the murals and sculptures. 

And you walked out the door.

My love was larger than life, but only a page in your life's story.