His burning hands trace
spiralling trails across my body,
echoing my outlines
with fervent magma.
His fingers are magnets
drawn to my rough edges, cracked
hands of glass smoothing me over.
Try as I might,
I blink to the beat of his heart,
cry to the flow of his love.
I am no longer my own.
I was a girl
of the purest black and white,
living a grayscale life.
He is warming and heating me
to a vivid red,
eyes burning blue,
skin dark with desire.
He comes in colours everywhere,
purple joy, green mystery,
the sound of his eyes catching mine.
The reverberation of his music
is enough to stain my life
with colour more vivid
each time his hands meet my face
to pull it towards his.