paint on callused fingertips,
paint dyeing German beer,
paint flickering fluttering trembling
across bare canvas skin as you
finesse, ink and watercolor at your
whim while you work. you are no
Caravaggio, much more a Gentileschi,
but Michelangelo himself would be
awed by your radiance, the subtle
art of your face and
brushstrokes of your curves,
spine sinuous undulating while you
dance for him.

I've been begging for you
to tell me something new for
months upon months, to tell me
that you are not the same,
that you cannot stand me,
that "I love you" was the Great Lie;
but you will not no never
you're too good for something so
base as hate or someone so
base as me but
you're still here and I
love you
and hate myself for it.