If he were a canvas,
     My fingers through his dark hair
     Would be gentle whips of cornflower
     Or the shade of the southern shores
     Aching for sun kissed sands.

     The deep tint of the midnight hour
     Is the feel of my palm on his cheek;
     Unspoken words spark between our skin,
     Igniting as I am red phosphorus and he is sulfur.

If he were a canvas,
     Our breathless laughter
     Is a warm canary radiating
     Across all the dark spaces we ignore
     Like solitary candles in suburban windows.

     Our hushed voices on the pillow
     Is the gold with which the sun shines;
     The reflection of my heart in his eyes
     Is silver like a glowing full moon.

If he were a canvas,
     My lips gently grazing his forehead
     Are a soft powder pink,
     Like the petals of an awakening rose
     Or the shade of clouds draped in dawn

     But when mine meet his, amaranth.
     A ceaseless incandescence
     Of raw desire and a hint of diffidence
     From a flower seeded in our gray matter.

     When he touches my skin
     It’s in shades of pine and dandelion and wisteria
     And suddenly I see the painting
     Has covered the painter in romantic chaos

And it is the apron they put on display.

There is a green light,
refusing to take shape.
He speaks to me in laughs
and leaves messages in the sunsets.
He nods, as if there is something
he knows that I'll never know.
And he laughs
and laughs
and laughs.
Without a word, it is understood
that I’m the fawn,
slipping on the ice with tangled legs,
and he watches with a silent smile—
a smile I can’t see, but I feel.
the same smile stitched on
with thread spun by
the infinite secrets of the universe.
A smile that tells me
a fawn finds her footing
before night falls.

Waiting for the sea she sits
writing with her fingertips
setting down herstory on the sand;

waiting, with a wistful eye
watching for the rising tide
wondering if stories can be drowned..