He tells me to paint him a picture,
paint it with strokes bold
I nod and cover the canvas in gold.
I throw some red in there to show my beating heart.
He knows nothing, not even our start.
Our love's purple, a war between red and blue.
When we dance, we're red
like the devil's tune.
We're splattered colours and broken palettes.
We sit at beaches waiting for our fates.
He could choke on his own cigarettes
but I won't leave him
till he tells me to paint another picture
with strokes bold
till the air in our rooms is no longer cold
till the fire has destroyed our pretty pictures
and his ashes cover my bones.