We are a smeared oil painting. 

I can almost see us 

sprawled over bedsheets 

in an early morning sun

on the still-wet canvas. 

I want to go back–

add in the details of us

but I don’t have the right green

for your eyes anymore. 

I can’t remember 

how your skin feels

when pressed to mine.

I fear that you have begun 

a new painting without me. 

I reach out and try to smudge 

the paint into new shapes–

ones that will keep you 

here with me. 

The paint dries under 

my fingers and cracks–

it flakes off the canvas, 

into the growing pile 

of yesterday’s dust

at my feet.

December 2024