Today, the sky is beautiful.
The clouds bleed deep crimson
onto the vivid blue that is the horizon.
but even now,
as I stare in adulation at the coruscating palette
I can feel the colors slipping
from the clefts between my fingers.
And as my thoughts turn quickly
from admiration
to apprehension
I foolishly allow my hands
to
fall.
Powerless, I watch each cloud run dry,
as the sky exudes
any vibrance that remained.
And as my heaven circles the drain,
I abandon my colors as well.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 6:53 PM UTC
Sometimes, I draw on your skin.
I put myself,
quietly,
onto your palm
in the form of curled letters
and sharp patterns.
Perhaps you think nothing of it,
a simple annoyance when you
try to brush your hair from your eyes and remember
that I am hunched over you,
lost in the shallow rivers that are the creases
running across your hands.
But I hope it means more.
I imagine you feel the pen,
moving with care,
gently tickling you
I picture you enjoying the warmth
from my other hand holding my canvas steady
or that you inspect each line,
reading to much into every error
that I felt too guilty for making.
But when the next day,
your palm is clean
every drop of ink scrubbed off with purpose
I stop romanticizing.
You have erased me.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC