My thumb rests on your words.
I took them with me
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.