we’d paint the walls an olive green
with a hint of tuscany
i sometimes wonder what it’s like
when you’ve spilled enough white wine on your lap
and you still beg to be fed grapes from another
even if its a trap
blindness leads us to the darkest of cages

my fingers graze the roses and their bunches
just a slight pinch won't hurt
the sprinkles of blood on my freshly washed shirt

a slight pinch of salt turning into a snowy mountain
this salt stuck to my tongue
burning the wounds
just a slight pinch

hands shaking at the sight of an old foe
the white wine stinging my throat

i sometimes wonder what if instead of the walls
we painted the sky
the indigo and shady clouds
empty bathrooms with the dim stalls

what if you were still here
instead of noisy complaints from the neighbors
and how we didn’t invite them to the dinner from before
the harsh and sudden shuts of the kitchen drawer

but all that would lead to is cracked paint
the clouds would crack
and the moon a dark abyss
our walls would turn to dust when you’d eventually come back

all there would be is cracked paint
my cracked hands and the chipped burgundy nails

i sometimes wonder if one day
when i look out of these windows
everything won’t be eventually turned into cracked paint
and instead
when i head out the doors
away from these olive green walls and dark wooden floors

it would be the smell of fresh paint
when i paint the new doors and walls of a new house a light blue
and i wouldn’t need you
when i wouldn’t need anyone
just me and the flowers basking in the sun