The paint brush runs across your bare skin
You watch me paint with all different colors - blues, blacks, greens, yellows, reds - vibrant, yet calm

Your eyes widen as the canvas on your back blossoms
Blossoms with flowers and faces and color

As the paint brush runs across your delicate skin, we lay entangled in the linen sheets.

We lay intertwined in all the vivacious colors
You told me to paint over all the scars on your skin, to create something beautiful from the broken pieces

So I painted a beautiful canvas - I created *art

I know every line on your palms
I know every curve & dip of your collar bones
I know every scar, every cut, every bruise
I know the exact shade of color in your eyes
I know the patterns of your movement -- your touch
I painted a beautiful canvas all over your soul

Then one day we broke -- fell and shattered
& now all I can say is I *knew

Blank canvas
I cleaned my brush
So do I need to know
About your past
And drag mine
Into this now?
Saturated colors
Some dark edges;
A focal point
Can we not paint on white
Start out right?


Blank canvas
Is not ours
I do not require
A new work of art,
Superimposed
Upon our past.

I take you
As you are
Along with each stroke of brush
You have crafted until now;

The anatomy of us
Overlaps with the portrait of our lives
I see the whole spectrum
Let us look at the big picture.

the sky was stained purple and green- ghastly hues-
leaving me with a very unclean feeling
unfurling on my palms.
I wanted to wash it away-
the colors were becoming one now
(the kind of mysterious brown mothers pulled their children from peering at on mown lawns)-
and have a canvas pure as the first hour snow falls over weary towns.

it was harder than I thought it would be.
it involved scrubbing away the lights when aiming for the darks;
too much muddled together to pull apart the best, beautiful parts,
too much of a mess I should’ve noticed earlier when
I picked up my paintbrush and decided to spread my existence
out and out and out-
too much to pull back now, anyways.
too much but I don’t regret
anything
for I pulled out my soul
and spun my paintbrush around in it collecting
deep pigmented blood stains and tear drops and soft hugs.

only then did I begin to understand
my twisted self- when
brush touched world.

His heart is what I love the most.
Flaming
Beautiful
Protected  
Behind locked doors, I found
An ever changing painting;
Always transforming with
Stunning colors sprinting across
The blank, white canvas of his making.
It will never be blank again
Because
The crimson of his love is too strong.
And
The violet of his daydreams is just too complex.
And
The deep blue of his sadness is simply too heavy.
But these colors
Along with so many others,
Are what make his his heart his, his alone.
What I love the most,
Is his vibrant heart.
No matter how many times
He attempts
To cover it in white.

As empty as it gets,
I stare and feel the color embrace me.
The abstract feelings that wanted to
come out yet still trapped within me.

I stare on the blank canvas,
Feeling the courage fading,
Losing my mind into vivid colors
      -   Just in thoughts…
Not being able to express them
Is just like making myself aware
that I have no talent in what so ever…

Did I lose my confidence that seeks?
Did I lose the passion that burns?
Did I lose my heart that shines?

Perhaps the cloud of doubt
    blurs many things…

Perhaps the road of uncertainties
    confuses many decisions…

Perhaps the water of creation
    is running dry…

I am losing myself,
     almost giving-up into death’s hands…

Yet…

I won’t give up,
Mastering the strength of what’s left
To find the muse of life
To keep me going a lifetime…

Your body is a canvas,
Covered with the paint,
of your life.
I want to study
and learn every stroke,
every scar.
I want to know
every part of you.
I need to learn your story
by seeing
and feeling
every inch of you.

She had a canvas and a paintbrush, but the canvas was her skin and the paintbrush was a blade.