If he were a canvas,
My fingers through his dark hair
Would be gentle whips of cornflower
Or the shade of the southern shores
Aching for sun kissed sands.
The deep tint of the midnight hour
Is the feel of my palm on his cheek;
Unspoken words spark between our skin,
Igniting as I am red phosphorus and he is sulfur.
If he were a canvas,
Our breathless laughter
Is a warm canary radiating
Across all the dark spaces we ignore
Like solitary candles in suburban windows.
Our hushed voices on the pillow
Is the gold with which the sun shines;
The reflection of my heart in his eyes
Is silver like a glowing full moon.
If he were a canvas,
My lips gently grazing his forehead
Are a soft powder pink,
Like the petals of an awakening rose
Or the shade of clouds draped in dawn
But when mine meet his, amaranth.
A ceaseless incandescence
Of raw desire and a hint of diffidence
From a flower seeded in our gray matter.
When he touches my skin
It’s in shades of pine and dandelion and wisteria
And suddenly I see the painting
Has covered the painter in romantic chaos
And it is the apron they put on display.