Just as the colors of Summer
  Fade into gentle shades of
Nighttime cerulean and smoke,
  The velveteen sky whispers...

A restless secret echoing across
  Silent meadows, heavy with shadows
That bleed shrouded consciousness
  Into the museum of my thoughts.

Each canvas is made of my skin,
  Drawn tight to a bone structure of
A paradoxical girl who's fingertips
  Emit a light...

A strong light which used to flow
  Like a river over midnight tears
And take me beyond to the realm
  Of sensation.

But now, I fall weak before the canvas
  Into a slumber as deep as time.

Billowing cloudbursts of paint in hues
  Of sorrow white and southern red
Rain upon my resting body
  On the floor.

The ghost of my conscience comes
  To cover me with a quilt patched
In foggy memories, incidentally
  Soaked in honey whiskey...

Just as the ghost covers me,
  It softly focuses on lips and breathes
"The empirical nature of your thought
  Rhymes with sensational control."

Though I venture in and out of
  Dreamscapes unknown,
I still hear the sound of the
  Wraith in my mind...

Like the somaticism of a beckoning
  And lonesome mockingbird calling
In the nightside fields of
  What I suppose is peace.

My chest becomes burdened with a sigh,
  A decadent and pure intoxication
Of the abstraction of
  Reality...

Seven miles above a three inch
  Reality.

The Watercolors flood the ever deepening
  Hallow of the museum of thoughts,
Drowning the corridors of my mind with
  Her liquefied heart.

I have completely lost a piece
  Of myself in her forever...

And light [watercolors] flowed from her tender fingertips.