My thumb on her words.
I took them with me—in love—from Georgia.
In a thirsty-for-her-brown-eyes sort of way, in pocket, I took them out.
Sorry if I got paint on you, they read.
I wish she had.
Paint between my knuckles, and up my forearms, to the unknown, delicate insides of my elbows, and then smeared dark to the bone of my hip.
A hand print on my chest.
Four green fingers, like wings, fanned out on both cheeks of my face, as if holding me close, mixed with the red of my heart, painting a yellow spark.