museum quality.

paint my body with your fingers,
smooth strokes of lavender down my spine.
last night was cool winter lust,
and we made it happens four times.
i dipped my brush, and got lost in strokes,
up and down, and criss-cross your back.
i took careful anguish in each color,
i contemplated each flourishing line of color.
from blank canvas i saw something begin to take form.
my masterpiece came to life.
in its infancy, wrapped with umbilical cord, and tissue lining,
it cried for life. it cried for being.
vicious strokes of cerulean, and carmine swirled about.
i took your figure and traced every curve,
with my hands.
the snowflakes fell on you, but your colors did not run.
they stayed true.
when i was done, i let you finish me off.
with your horse-hair brush, i let you finish me off.
from head to toe, the colors trickled,
each pint of blood infused with paint.
you stopped with me, and i stood there,
one of the masters' last stands.
a botched bordone,
a carelessly-crafted kraft,
and none of the masters will ever look back.
i am the piece left unfinished for lack of understanding.
i am the piece done up so carefully, but all alone left standing.
they hung you up before your paint dried,
in a quaint museum for the hungry public eye.
all your strokes done with perfection,
there was no need for intervention.
as i sit and collect dust, i wait for you to return and finish me off.