i remember the grit of the rocks under my feet,
the tug of tiny waves at my toes,
the smudges of mud on your cheeks,
we were so small.

the grass was dead and the air cold
and you knew exactly why,
always smarter than me
but how could I ever even think
of holding that against you?

we never made promises,
but even death couldn't do us part
blood is thicker than water, isn't it?
i hate that phrase,
hate everything it means
and everything it's done to me
but you are my closest
and maybe it is the blood
running through our veins
and dripping from our noses

i'd do anything you asked me to
because i know
you'd never ask of me anything that would hurt me

i found love
in the burn in your throat
from wanting to cry,
in the breath of air after a lie,
in the space between heartbeats,
and in the chill of broken air-conditioning
in an empty room

i found love
in the dripping of a tap
left on and abandoned,
in the echo of voices in a canyon,
in footprints dried in years-old mud,
and in the negative spaces of my hands
where yours used to rest

open textbooks like broken promises,
pages creased and corners frayed,
sticky notes smudged;
my eyes blur over the words
the words in black and white and blue;
my fingers in blue spots and red tint
fumble with the edges of the paper,
cold and clumsy -
it's hard to stay awake.

i hope you're happy with her,
i hope her hands fit perfectly in yours
i hope it's everything you ever dreamed it to be,
i hope her smile makes your dreams come true, i
hope, i
hope, i
hope
that every cliché i see
when i think of you,
you can find in her

i smear oil paint across your lips.

your face, outlined in pale brown and
robin's egg blue and
yellow-green,
rests gently in negative space.

part of me hurts
when i look at this part of you,
this part i am
so familiar with,
in an unfamiliar way.

the lines of your eyes
(eyes i've gazed into a thousand times)
betray my secrets and my soul;

the whisper of your hair
is the same as the quiet brush of mine
on the tops of my bare shoulders;

i reach out to touch you,
and my fingers touch dried oils
in shades of raw umber and cadmium lemon;
my paintbrush still dangles, wet,
from my other hand.

the creased wax paper on the table
carries swatches of color,
the potential energy of
my pigment-smudged hands;
you are still unfinished.

i am still unfinished.