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9 - Holding Hands
when I imagine painting our joined hands
pink, purple, blue and yellow all blend together,
forming skin in little patchwork pigments that
somehow make a whole.
darkening in the creases of our skin,
where the insides of our palms have become wrinkled
like an elderly face wizened by time
or a map,
indents in the coating's colour where the marks of major destinations are.
or just another screwed up piece of paper.
long since thrown away.
stretching over the tightness encompassing our knuckles
in the sort of way that canvas extends over wood.
light in the patches of sun
but dripping
because, for some reason,
we thought it would be a good idea to paint upright
with wet paint that was a little too watery thin
to be of any real substance.
no matter how many layers we slapped on.
the outline of the hands would be indistinguishable,
blending into one another in the sort of manner that mimicked fog closing down on mountains.
the pencil sketch long forgotten.
a faint projection of one of your photogtaphs
as a guideline.
first shapes constructed by the fading marks of a pencil
but filled in with colour a little too quickly.
hastily.
not really built to last.
made only of paper, after all,
and a few layers of paint.
more of something to be framed than used.
hung on a wall.
something to smile at in passing
and remember as a pretty ornament
adorning a long, extensive corridor
filled with many other artworks.
YOU ARE READING
Opposite of Infinite
PoetryThe hard truth of a failed love story told through poetry. ❝but that fallen star? it was foreshadowing of a wish that was yet to be made.❞ (lowercase intended)
