rub your collarbones over mine and leave on me the smell of your skin so I can finally have something to wake up to

you can have all of me

she got used to writing about his eyes, the color of bath water and how she wanted to bathe in them, the poet's cliché.

until he left her and she realized they weren't pale purple or pale blue or translucent: they were stormy gray like a volcano with a flaring red rim similar to lava. each blink brought upon an eruption of mass proportions and he cried dark ashes.

you kissed my neck and I began to seep into a pile of hot candle wax; melting and hardening all the while. you cleaned me up and tried to mold me into what I once was but I knew that I would never be the same candle that warmed you up. when I am with you my fire seems to flicker with a certain nervousness and then you kiss my neck and I begin to fall apart once again.

and i promise
that every single night
before the darkness
swallows this already
blackened world,
i'll tell you how
beautiful you are to me.
i'll tell you how much
i adore you

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.

Picture-perfect spectacle, splattered upon the canvas
White canvas polka-dotted, splashed, smacked
With an ensemble of colors partaking in lively dances
Artistry exemplary, simple applause apparently apt.

It was this artist’s one shot
The proof was in the painting
The piece ; joy is what it brought
The other piece, other joy, exhilarating.

Reds, violets, blues
Pinks, greens, and orange hues
Rainbow splats and careful flats
Certain clusters of paint make me glad.

Though, like every painting painted
A hidden passage creating vexes
Faint sadness ; happiness tainted
The mind of this creator perplexes.

All the while I’ve been feeling his art
And touching the surface
Deep below was his heart
Well crafted mask that hugged his face

I shall pick his brain
Quite literally, though it’s repulsive
For this painting was his last, ashame
His retirement is messy, but in an eye of an artist
This gunpoint suicide was one that held artistic fame.