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."
