I can string a few words to pull you along,
maybe create a concoction to turn your head.
But I do not own the ways or the means
to make you look
and keep looking.

And these hands are merely hopeless hands:
the paper your fingers hold is less feeble.
My words are grey splodges, a child’s waterpicture. But
tear the page’s edge, and a cascade of bright paint would spill on your palm,
and you could trace your fingertips through the colours,
and watch them whirl on your skin. 

And my eyes are a cavernous window-pane.
Look close and it is bluey-green-grey,
tinted and squinted, far from beautiful.
Not an interesting painting to marvel at,
but an obvious photograph of thought. Glanced over with a
tentative pass, rather than admired with interested brow.

And my body was never sculpted from timeless marble
but mortified mortal clay – I am marked, and bent,
and if you were ever to touch me at all,
I would hold it to my bones like a shockwave.
It would leave a print, a mould of yours,
a soft sunblush on my skin to smoulder.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!