the self-portrait he made one day

will you tell me of the hues that drip and bleed onto your canvas— the streaks the smudges the smears. are they the ones flowing through your veins twisting—turning to reach that place I long to call home? or maybe the ones residing in your eyes flickering—hiding behind the mask you too willingly wear? will you show me the color of dawn when darkness sheds its skin and kisses goodbye. the amethyst seas where sirens beckon from the deep. the color of blood when it meets oxygen’s lips. the strokes of rain against the window pane where you spent your autumn afternoons. the cups of undrunk tea that your mother left sitting on the kitchen table. will you show me the hues of your paint-stained hands that I have yet to hold so maybe—just maybe— I too can see the colors you see.

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