I threw pickaxes at the blank wall
to make an impression.
Each one looking like a scar,
the cracked skin of an elderly,
not giving me sympathy,
only crow face stares.
You threw paintbrushes at the wall,
loaded with lavender and sky blue drops,
that ran minuscule rivers in the scar cut ravines.
Handing me one of your brushes,
You said first impressions
Should never be made with a pickaxe.