you remind me of watercolor-
quiet, soft, a little smudged around the edges
so you never quite fit any definitions and
I wish I could be amorphous like you.
I am picturing this: dipping my brush into your palms and pools
and sweeping them over my own skin
so that I might feel with your nerve endings,
allowing the hue that is you to blend seamless
into the overabundance of pigments in my skin
to seep silent into my dreams
so I wake with the sound of water dripping along my eardrums.
I am imagining piercing your skin to drain the gray-blue
into my little heart-gourd, and saturate myself
until I am no longer able to absorb any influence but yours
and even if you wrung me out there would still be the stain of you on my pores.
I want to cry for you–
but after so many paintings,
I do not have enough water left to do it.