Paint me black, for the hiding unknown.
Night enshrouds the moon as a swaddle does the newborn. So I, too, had taken comfort in what could not be seen. My eyes would close, and I to sleep, and none to know the better.
Paint me grey, for the opioid of haze.
A smoke, a screen, a brook to drown hands in. So they reached from a fenced perch, impartial but greedy, a dangerous mix. For they slipped on silver and sent me plummeting headfirst.
Paint me white, for the first snowfall.
Stunning and stark yet new and pure to find myself here. At my feet, a blank canvas for Father Time and Mother Earth. We joined them, and I adorned colors only you dared to create:
Paint me violet, for the fleeting and unbound.
A new cosmos to undermine is no easy feat. Such is the potential of a flawless allure tipped in tears unshed, made malleable into one more broken yet of beauty unimagined.
Paint me indigo, for the peripheral vision.
Step, step. Down the road, straight and narrow. Step, step. You take your own, straight, and narrow. We cannot stray, but I find your gaze just as you catch my betraying eyes. The road hums with syncopated breath, and I always hope it will curve.
Paint me blue, for the untempered heart.
I know not a good deal when I see one. I merely give, and take. When it was or how it came to be, I gave you a key with little thought or worry to come. To unlock many and fear none pales all, my love.
Paint me green, for Libra’s scales.
Where our fingertips meet, the caps crest, and the undulation cries. The low draws in, and the high coaxes out what might otherwise lie untouched. For one without the other, there is no horizon to admire.
Paint me yellow, for the wonder of the mind.
Where I find no, you find yes, and quite the opposite can be said. I stumbled into a maze where lies built walls and truth built lies. You didn’t understand, so you left. Sometimes I feel you revealed the way out.
Paint me orange, for the thrill of a day.
Place and time became Picassos. Instead, sound and sense molded the frameworks of my memory using the rich tones of your smile and the map of your body. What I remember is no longer where or when we were, but what we are.
Paint me red, for the incessant fervor.
To follow you is nothing short of bathing in sunlight, where something warm traces its way inside. But, perhaps, that is what the sun does. It finds and warms and changes. You may not yet understand the effect of your flames, and don’t ask it of me. For one eventually understands why fire burns.
Paint me something farther, a curve of the unseen that will freely align.
And let me dream that I have dyed you, too,
In a beautiful shade deeper. ~E
