Your hands were paintbrushes birthing art upon my hide, creating new landscapes over the tired contours of my barren canvas-skin And before the air-whispers could begin to dry the paint, we smeared it between our bodies in a mess of colors sticky enough to glue our hearts together
The colors stuck to our bellies and spattered our faces in a brilliant deaf cacophony – and we nailed ourselves to a cheap craft store frame that we believed could marry us forever But as soon as we hung ourselves on the gallery wall, the claustrophobia of the frame constricted our smiling exhibit-faces and our painted toes yearned to touch the ground
I caught your bitter tears in the palms of my hands and dissolved the paint between us in a faded erasure of the art that declared us One. We escaped the confines of the cheap, unstable frame and I said my goodbyes without catching your eyes
And we still wear discolored marks of our once-was-masterpiece like nostalgic scars that have stained our bones with once-happy hues and pigments of regret