isn’t it funny how i
can still taste the night
sky you painted on
my canvas-like lips?

painting, sketching,
leaving me wishing i had
a little more of myself
left to give you.

my body was your book
of art and i stretched
myself taut so you could
sketch the right proportions.

you left me wishing i
had more to give you,
because now there is no
more room for others
to freely paint.

if my canvas was clean . . .
if only it was empty and
bright again; if only
my bare skin might see
the light again.

i apologize to those
who are inspired by what
they see, for there is
no more room left to
paint on me.