In the black coffee of night the moon pours cream
through the open window above our bed and lightens
the umber shadow stretching across the pale linen wall.
I want to paint you, your skin canvas smooth. Your breath
teases my touch as the hands and lips of new lovers do.
I dip my brushes into the liquid cups of your palms, load them
with color--madder rose,
vermillion,
scarlet,
carmine deep, cerulean,
turquoise,
lemon yellow,
burnt sienna,
ebony, titanium white--
to mix and match memories. I trace the whorls of your ears.
One brush fine enough to limn each lash, another of sturdy
bristle to scumble in the nooks of belly and ribs. I use flats
and ovals to define the arcs of your curves and wipe them clean
with rags torn from sheets where we strayed. Carefully, I frame you
in my arms and dry you with whispers.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
In the black coffee of night the moon pours cream
through the open window above our bed and lightens
the umber shadow stretching across the pale linen wall.
I want to paint you, your skin canvas smooth. Your breath
teases my touch as the hands and lips of new lovers do.
I dip my brushes into the liquid cups of your palms, load them
with color--madder rose,
vermillion,
scarlet,
carmine deep, cerulean,
turquoise,
lemon yellow,
burnt sienna,
ebony, titanium white--
to mix and match memories. I trace the whorls of your ears.
One brush fine enough to limn each lash, another of sturdy
bristle to scumble in the nooks of belly and ribs. I use flats
and ovals to define the arcs of your curves and wipe them clean
with rags torn from sheets where we strayed. Carefully, I frame you
in my arms and dry you with whispers.