Trigger Warning
I like the blue of you;
you’re using ultramarine today,
and I smile to see sloppy half moons
curved around the edges
of your blunt fingernails.
You don’t see me—or at least
not anymore than you see anyone else
who has gathered to watch you paint.
But I see more than the painting,
your rendition of a gauzy summer sky
arched over a crumbling brick wall,
which is covered in ivy that spreads
like a coup d’é-tat.
I see wayward strands of raw umber
hair fall across your eyes, the way you
tap the handle of the paintbrush
against your bottom lip when you are thinking,
the faded, low-slung jeans with a hole in one knee,
the black t-shirt with cut-off sleeves.
I follow the flick of your wrist,
the sweeping brush strokes
that blend the very bones of you,
and think I might someday
hang a piece of your soul on my wall.