Ms. Monroe -
I had painted her on my wall
In that room
In that time
That was once mine
Like herself
And is now gone..
She is still there though
Beneath the layers,
Maybe.

Painted over
Blind to the common eye
But if you look closely
Her traces linger
He outlines distinct
And her curls ever-flowing
Even the mole
Still there
Under layers
Of paint
And various other things
Becoming a layer,
Maybe
But she's still there

Etched once upon a time,
Now fogged by their layers
But I still see her
More fortunately,
Still feel her
There
On that wall
In the minds
Where she shall always be..

she strode past us with a strangely humble presence,
short dark curls matching a flawlessly and painfully casual outfit.
It must've taken her at least three trips from the shelf to the counter -
there was a stack of maybe 11 canvases in front of her, all varying in shape and size.

she was an effortless kind of beautiful,
the kind that boasts without saying anything.
you could tell so much about her just by looking at her appearance,
but at the same time all her movements seemed to be keeping secrets.
Her conversation with the woman at the cashier reflected her lightweight personality,
and I liked the way she used the word "surfaces" for the blank canvases -
that word was a large mouthful of potential.

I really hope she'll paint them in all the different shades of European blues and greens and bronzes that I had caught a glimpse of in her eyes.

Her smile ignited in her toes and reached all the way up to the creases by her eyes as she laughed at him. "You can paint anything in the world and you choose to paint a flower?" She chuckled.

He thought about her words and decided to spill out the truth "I chose to paint this flower because it is beautiful and the only thing more beautiful than a flower is you. I cannot capture your laugh, the way you look at me, your whispered "I love you's", the blue hue of your eyes and your cheshire smile on a piece of paper. A thousand shades of paint couldn't even begin to do you justice, my love."

Change me, tame me,
make me who I'm not.

Stretch me, shrink me,
this is what we're taught.

Paint me, hide me,
until there's nothing left.

Maim me, shame me,
there you have it-
the world's easiest identity theft.

The world is just an old fat man.
Rolling in holy black sheets.
Old replayed talk radio-
And a nice warm cup of tea.
I drank my soda too fast.
I looked at her too long.
I said I'd see the world.
But without Her, I'm sure I'd see it wrong.
We used our hands as cups and plates.
We never wanted to sleep.
We stayed up until morning.
Busy bodied, watching T.V.
She painted her nails in the same color-
As the sky after a storm, where-
Orange and red, with swirls-
Twisted like her hair.
The world saw me love her.
It even led me by the hand.
And just because you miss me-
Doesn't mean I miss you back.

Of feathers and rain,
Both washed and running,
His strokes are free but damp,
His words are clear and flowing.

Thousand strong, they speak of life so light and pale,
Where the wind blows soft in an off-white sail;
In the faded colors they are but a dream,
Still the ocean breathes salty, calm on the breeze.

On white they bleed,
Under summer sun like rain they dry,
Although in the wet they run,
Still some day they all must die.

And they bled such beauty,
Their death so tragic, is now such glory,
Of feathers and rain they seem,
In faded colors they are but a dream.

The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.

A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.

Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.

What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.

The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.

The life is still, but forever infinite.