there are pens,
they leave words, on paper,
they dance with the language of art.

there are paintbrushes,
they glide upon canvases
magenta
violet
and sometimes you can make that empty sort of grey-ish blue,
like the one that's reflected upon pale skin when it's just before dawn.

and then there are mouths,
and they paint with warm, slick tongues,
on cold freckled flesh,
and they move up and down spines,
and they adorn throats,
and make marks,
disguised love letters on skin,
like the
purple you see in freezing toes,
and lilacs peeking up from spring snow.