The Girl from S.C.A.D.

My thumb rests on your words.

I took them with me

from Georgia.

 

In a thirsty-for-your-brown-eyes sort of way,

from a pocket damp with Florida rain,

I had taken the note out and read it quietly.

 

Sorry if I got paint on you

 

I wish you 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 handprint left on my chest.

 

I wish you had left green fingers

streaked, like wings, fanned out

on both sides of my face.

 

I wish you had held me still, mixed

the red of my heart with the

green of your grasp.

 

And from that, I wish you had painted

a yellow spark on my soul, and

then left me with the choice to peel it off.

 

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