my last watercolor calls herself a fake. studio is contraction for oblong walls talking to themselves all day. there is a window half-shuttered; not a living soul. a sprig of geranium bleaches itself in the dust. below, slate roofs sun themselves shamelessly.

winter is the taste of burnt sugar. how it clings to my palate with the tenacity of a five year old! my skin wears your laughter in her tepid gouache folds. look, these are my bones. and this is me lying naked across the coldness of your heart.

remember my eyes?

they can still set fire to the rain.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s