His heart is a palette of paints
And his hands, paint brushes.
Every night, he quietly contemplates
Dips his fingers in colour, doesn’t rush it.
 
When liquid hue is dripping down his arm,
He turns to me, with eyes of stone
The too-familiar clasp of dread beneath
My clammy skin, suddenly I am no more.
 
I watch, a spirit from above
As he paints me in the colours of love.
The chills of blue, reptilian green,
Dull purples and yellows in delicate sheen.
 
The saltish brine behind my eyes has long evaporated,
The nerves in my body are desensitised.
Now all that remains is the dead grip around my heart,
And so, to the colours, I oblige.
 
But ever so occasionally my foolish heart dares hope
That tonight just might be different, he might just let me go.
I remember now, those early days, when his eyes were warm
And the colours he’d paint me in would shine brighter than the sun.
 
Iridescent golden, brilliant as the day;
Burning red – the colour of love, the poets may say.
Flurries of the happiest hues –
Now there is nothing but empty shells, residues.