Art

Your heavenly fingertips traced my arms, creating cracks like lightning bolts, letting the sunlight from my soul shine through the moonlit room. The way your lips molded with mine made me feel like art; they painted me with soft colors everywhere, splattering me with lilac and blue, but not the kind that my father gave me when I was younger after he had too much to drink, it was different that time. Now that you left I need to do that again, I need to be complete, because how can an artist not come back to finish his work?