You. I want to paint you. I want your beauty on the tip of my brush, smeared across a canvas so I can see down to your thinnest layer, not just the clump that you were on the bristles. You're a mess. You are oils and colors mixed together on a bumpy sheet, taking forever to dry. People get tired of watching you and they leave. You blame yourself for not drying fast enough, for not having interesting colors, for the bubbles and patches in your paint. I'll stay here and watch you. You are taking forever to dry, but my heart skips a beat every time you catch the light. I lose my breath every time a bit of you falls from the canvas and onto the floor. I tear up when gravity mixes your colors, creating purples and browns and greens. You may mix and change and smear before you dry, and I want to see how beautiful you are when you do.

There is a trail in Pennsylvania that is barely tamed
That winds on down the mountainside and fractures into veins.
It lashes through the trees and wood, like man-made ligh-ten-ning
And offers streams of water tasting pleasantly of spring.
This way is framed with micro-caves and fissures in the stone
Where sweetest water rivulets feed moss that's overgrown
Haphazard wooden walkways dot the snake-like trodden path
Their clumsy steps all akimbo; they bridge the wild gaps.

And even further down the trail, dodging brown tree roots
That point like gnarled fingertips and target untied boots
Below, like uncut diamonds lodged into the mountainside
Gushing waterfalls sing aloud, in ranges far and wide.
Their surging torrents babble in a distinguished harmonies
The wordless wind responds by rustling through the countless trees.

There, at last around the bend, before the lumbered river
A bench there sits within the shade where coolness draws a shiver
The wood is at the mercy of the lichen and the rain
That rush to bring that broken boards back to the earth again.

And there, amidst the other foolish carvings in the wood
Scrawled with hopeful youthful hands that did the best they could
The chips and angles buried in reveal what once was true
This is the final place where I will always love you , too.

Den dag var det som om, at selv himlens blå bebrejdede min eksistens.
Regnen faldt anderledes. Det hele var anderledes.
Dem. Jeg. Hvem?
Jeg tror, at jeg bevægede mig -
Sørgede for ikke at se mig tilbage. Ej heller frem.
Forpustet, forkommen, forladt. Blå.
begyndte jeg at se monstre i spejlet
i stedet for under sengen som ja, dengang.
Fortroligheder var gemt i gulvsprækkerne, hvilke der viskede historier til væggene om stort og blåt.
Om hvordan længere ud, ikke var langt nok.
Om at der kun var mig, og at ej heller det var nok.
Om at blive afhængig, og hvordan organer skæres.
Om hvordan to fingre i halsen og et sind i krig kan romantiseres.
Om at samvittigheden bliver for ivrig.
At vi skal knuselske alt blåt,
at det aldrig bliver blåt nok,
at vi en dag nok skal blive væk.

You sugar-coat our future
With a cotton-candy kiss;
A sweet slip of tongue,
A chocolate press of lips

Your eyes yield a bittersweet gleam,
Your hair, tangled with icing grease,
But things are never what they seem,
Everything must go, all things must cease

My dear, your love is sweeter than all things sweet,
Your touch softer than all things soft,
I feel high on sugar when our lips meet,
But to a sugar low we are opt.

Blue,
This is the color of your eyes.

Hope,
This is what I see within them.

Black,
This is the horrible bit of hatred and sadness in the center of them.

White,
This is the color I see them swimming in.

Red,
This is the color that comes in tendrils beneath the pools of white, a sign of restlessness.

Love,
This is what I want to see in your eyes, and yet it is the only quality that I cannot find within them.

Perhaps I am a fool.

I hope I am a fool.