Love, such an abstract thing.
Spread across a canvas.
Made seen by the help of brush bristles.
A vivid depiction of clear bottles made a mess.
I hope your not afraid of painting with ***** hands.
The feel of paint staining clean hands.
Here.
No one is innocent.
Not even the canvas which is neither seen nor heard

I opened her closed fingers.
Filling them with the open space of gaps between mine.
These things words could not say.
Still she remained my journal.
Always.
Even if we didn't know what to say.

I find her between the dimples of happy couples
and the sparkling cider of fluid hands: Coming together at 
the stem

There is a spark,
in your soul,
that so many
underestimate.
They seemingly
keep forgetting
about this little thing
that we all call air.
That with a little huff
and a little puff
from those soft lips,
you could turn
this entire world
into a living,
breathing,
blazing fire.
An inferno,
made entirely
out of your beautiful
and glorious love,
you have
for yourself
and others.
Therefor,
their words,
can't ever touch you.
I believe that's why,
when they try,
you just smile and say,
"Have a beautiful day."

I disciplined myself in her.
Humbling myself in her mold.
First my body then my soul.
Painting myself with her skin.
She scribbled her name across me.
Using her finger as a pencil, gently scribbling.
I don't want to sound crazy. But I thought she was suppose to be
the object of my affection not the other way around.
I love how she does that

When I look at her.
I don't see color.
Not the tone of her skin, nor the clothes she wore.
She was a woman. Held upright within her own atmosphere.
She wasn't to be made of material possession.
With one look you'd know why she was regarded as every artist's muse.
But if you'd ever speak to her without regard to which aerosol
imitated her best.
She'd reply she just longed to be