I wish you would draw me with your kisses:
Your lips are puckered in faded-lipstick red.
Your skin is the color of curdled milk and cream.
Your dress cascades off your back.
I stay hunched by the plum-colored curtains, feeling
your eyes outline the curves of my back, like a sculptor critiquing his own statue.
"Who needs knives when your words are sharper than diamonds?" you ask,
unfolding the night like a freshly laundered sheet.
But the night is too dark to keep secrets, so I fold them in the twists of your auburn hair
before setting you free, knowing that tomorrow, when I can not hold you
in my palm like lilly petals, I will cry.
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