My hands are tired, so I let my brush rest,
unable to paint Autumn's loneliness.
How much I miss you can never be stressed.
August has left behind blank emptiness.
Sitting by the window in the corner,
watching the world in its colourful hues.
I search for your face among the murmur,
but all I'm left with is a muse with blues.
In simple stillness your voice echoes loud.
Each stitch I weave I see you before me.
Memories remind me of what we vowed.
Without you there would be no artistry.
My palette is dry without your pastel,
all that's left is an indigo inkwell.