i love you, really.

i'm swimming in your sea,
the world, a moving picture
for you to paint me.
you've burnt orange into my skin,
new marks, dark and deep.
honey blond you breathe into my hair,
air filled, full, flecks of gold dust and rust
freckles, terracotta spots.
i roll through your colors, collecting everything,
covered in your jungle greens, purple mountain majesties,
your earthy tones, moss between my toes,
dirt under my fingernails, twirling through the leafy trails
of your forests, artfully you swirl your watercolors with brushes,
nimble simple strokes, touches,
sunbursts in my open wides,
it's your choice if they're jade or slate.
saffron and sangria surfacing on my cheeks
as you plant a perfect lily on my lips.

i would beg you every day to paint me into your
champagne landscape,
but no, you and i are far away,
so distant that lines start to blur when i try

to see you,

i would cry, bleeding the colors you so delicately placed,
then cry harder, knowing that i am ruining the masterpiece you made me out to be.

you are just out of my reach,
but you can still paint me.

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom."

curls.

my thoughts are little curls in my hair.
if my appearance shows those i feel on bad days,
i am a mess of nestled, tangled branches, reaching.
but smooth like green glass,
one glance from you is all it takes
to prune and polish every speck and spot and sparrow's nest.
let's forget.

counting the times, simply.

it's twelve thirty-seven, and you're dancing.
swaying in the wind. reaching for the colder air.
the room is spinning, thick with noise
thin and stretched, pulling beats apart.
your legs get lazy,
your eyes get heavy.
it's easier to move when you can't see.
counting the times, simply.

a few seconds.

subconscious. i feel my mouth start to curl.
you're telling another animated story about some startling situation.
i could laugh inwardly all day at your cleverness.

inwardly.

you wrap my fingers up like presents. i can't feel mine. but i feel yours.
you're the wind that bites at my collarbones, the satisfying sting, the burning feeling when you warm up.
when you glance at me, i want to fall away.
when you stare at me, i want to hide in you.

you're the perfect hiding spot, the space under the bed, the anticipation of being found.
i want to be found.

this day was so perfect.

we could put on the same shoes and the same coats and illustrate another perfect day. what do you say?

let's watch the leaves stain the sidewalk and paint our eyes the color of the sky. we could wrap ourselves in autumn and lay our heads on what's left of summer. when we wake up in the middle of the park, we won't know how long we were sleeping. but we won't mind.

so you say

i want to hide in the volcano trees
leaves that burn my eyes
your eyes burn holes through me
and i squint to catch the sunbursts
bits of gold glimmer around your eclipses
i reminisce, instances where i get lost in you
you are all hands and lips and shoulders
mine are yours to hold
i say that all i want is for you to be unhappy.
but if you wanted,
you could hide with me in my volcano tree
where we'd sit all day and smolder
we'd glow like the fires that burn the volcano tree leaves.

some time, now.

you are the first breath
when i lay down to sleep
of lingering, mingling stress and relief
a festering, flustering hope for a dream
but i don't sleep much anymore.

you are the melody
that echoes through halls
a beat that enthralls
when my spirit starts to fall
but i don't sleep much anymore.