I remember how we used to paint.
You painted with the black,
as if you had every colour of the rainbow in your possession.

Oh, how we used to paint.
With our bodies.
And our love, we painted.

At the corners of your smile, the ocean of blue crept out.
When you laughed, that lovely red exploded.
When your eyes lit up, the yellow of the afternoon sun leaked.

Now, I cry, a storm of magnificent purple.
I sweat, a fiery orange that burns my skin.
A deep forest green ready to drip off of my lips.

Can't you see? To be all that I am, I need you.

Did we really only paint with black?