I am shameful for purging my perspectives on you,
for confessing that I view so much of the world as art.
I see two bodies;
pressed, humming and soaked on sheets
as a personification for paintbrushes pleading themselves
over a canvas that is waiting to be stretched and glossed.
You were never one for sentimental honesty.
I have a trouble refraining myself from romanticizing the ordinary,
from avoiding the comfort of desired colours
that over power the outlining sketch.
I am fond of complexity,
and long for someone who explores themselves the way I do.
There are many things to detest in the world,
but a lover that allows her body to expand further than herself
should not be one of them.