If we were on a canvas;

I. Ocean blue greys in heavy handed strokes,
Bleed into a green of sun lit canopies .

  Burnt umber and soil with quick wristed flecks of something like the yellow of thick honey

  Intermingling over deafening white, the colors collide messily but not unintentionally

  Not oil, not acrylic,  not even water color .

  Rather something made truly of these very things,

  Ocean depths and hurricane hights, black tire marks burnt into cement and the mud that squishes beneath bare feet. The colors of momentary bliss . Unapologetic and unraveling.

II.  Dust collects heavily on a lustrous and listless painting , dimly lit in an empty gallery.
 
   Only my fingertips disturb the sediment of dust and salt, the face of these colors only haunt me .

  And those who remember seeing it look sadly apon me and tell me only; that there are more muses in this world than one.
 

III.   You're somewhere doing something ,
    But no matter what satisfaction is gained
You know there is no recreation of those hughs,
And a piece of you too mourns the capability to finish the art set in place by fate and choice.


If we were on a canvas , we would be hidden in lonely parts of eachother, because whatever we made this of is stained into our skin no matter how hard their loving hands try to cleanse them .
We are the very mess we create.
Unapologetic.
Unraveling.
Undeniably human.