WIthout Warning

This poem might be about absolutely nothing at all.

Your broken expression like fresh paint on the wall, still untouchable, just as I am.  Peddling in the streets for sorry salutations, a chance to believe in my own existence beyond this stony reflection.  My eyes dim dark as you crowd into all that's left of me.  The bedroom dorr has locked itself away from any connection to this disgrace of treason.  A moving sidewalk in my path, our path farther away from each other, the way fate would have it be.  I stare down the silence released for good from the misshapened carriage which brought it to me, for safe keeping, I assume.  But with no written instructions addressed to me.  Your broken gaze haunts me like the fresh paint laid down years ago but still bleeding into the floor.  It holds my attention as I forget everything else and melt into those fading colors.