i’m no artist, but the night I kissed you 
standing and shivering in the center
of your driveway
I painted precise pictures on your lips 
and left my handprints covering your canvas.

I never understood color pallets 
until the last thing I saw before 
I felt you was something I couldn’t 
quite comprehend in your eyes, and when I closed my own,
colors I’d never seen before 
bursted behind the lids.

When i look at art, I don’t feel much of anything, 
but the night we stood alone locking lips 
you were pale with fear and all too gentle with me, as
if you help me too tightly I’d shatter.
I grew weak and everything ached and gravitated towards
all that you are and ever will be.

We could be like Van Gogh and Picasso;
creating our own little masterpiece.
But you don’t make art and neither do I.
All I’ll ever be is the shy, shriveled up shadow 
of the woman I wish I was.
I'll always taste too much like tobacco 
and lost hope and honey, you don’t smoke.