Every day we'd sit
to the soothing voice
of the afro man,
dabbing his brush
into happy little bushes.
Now those happy little accidents
are gone far away from you,
so far, his 'fro
seems nothing more than
a bush on the side of the road.

Describing his wispy voice,
the gentle stroke of his brush
brings a vague smile,
but only just,
a mimic of the joy that comes
to my lips as I
reminisce,
selfishly
before you.

A child then,
I barely knew my colors;
yet you helped me
bloom a rainbow garden.
And when I knew my colors well,
you embraced the forests
I drew in blue,
the models of spacecraft
from distant worlds,
imagined by foreign minds.
I wept only once
in front of you,
a rare tantrum for a childish thing.
You cleared my tears
and left me beaming in my new
ballcap.

Older now,
I describe the colors to you;
you recall the meaning of two
or three.
Life has turned you
back into a child:
screaming outwardly,
weeping inwardly.
The things you know you should know
escape you,
things now beyond
your comprehension.
Decades upon decades
you experienced the magic
your fingers could bring to the
canvas of our lives.
The watercolors now bleed into
vague puddles of tan,
oils run thick and drip,
matting the carpet.
You tantrum against the loss
of yourself
as I dab your tears
and offer you the hat
of my memories
to sustain you through the fog
laid heavy around your head.

So I tell you the story
of the afro man,
dabbing his brush
into happy little bushes,
and we navigate this
not-so-happy little accident
that is you
lost on the last leg of your
life journey,
hoping my smile
will stay contagious to you
until that last step
that breaks the haze
and brings you home.

I always had an affinity for bones.
Unbending, able to hold up the weight of lives,
bodies,
souls.
Supportive, yet thankless, with little to show for it
but stress marks and fractures.
The occasional splash of calcium to
feign appreciation and sustain them.
At least until the flesh gives in to the parasitic bites of time,
Forgotten among skeletal strangers until they snap
or are exhumed.
I always wanted to be a bone.
Or perhaps it terrified me that it is my fate.
To be defined only by the context
made by those around me.
Excavating them from the landscape of their peers became a hobby.
I considered making a career out of it for a time,
but, well,
they try so hard to be the dirt,
you end up chipping right through them,
giving what little they have left to the flesh that feeds
off their surroundings.
And since they prefer to be dirt anyway,
putting them back together only
amplifies the guilt.
A futile puzzle against nature.
Identifying their remains only unites them
in mortal solidarity
with the dirt they beg to be.
Tarnished crystal skulls
impaired by the liquid brains
they once sheltered from birth.
I chose finally to polish those cherished bones
found by others,
pulled from the earth by reverent force.
A bone in denial,
polishing other bones,
posing ourselves to fit the mold
of newly defined flesh
in the open air.
Bent and rebirthed against will,
finally celebrated
with nothing left to show.

Perceived perfection
So untouchable
Desperation grasping
Yet held far out of reach
Cherished in heartbreak
Preserved beyond embrace
Separation prevents
Defamation
A sacrifice
With nothing gained

Presumed paltry
Defective at distance
Horrid by the mile
Yet proximity brings tranquility
Intimacy that
Mends the mirror
Seals the cracks
Rudimentary becomes
Paragon
A sacrifice
Which gains everything