watercolor fingers and paint-stained lips

because my friend who almost didn't make it (the Little Train) worked with watercolor the other day and taught me how to use it

and suddenly
i am everything

LED lights lighting up the sky
teeth like broken glass
and eyes like extinguished stars
that burn a molten brown, 
like cooled lava

and nothing is real, 
nothing shivers or shakes
like the tipping of a porcelain figurine 
off the edge of my white, white desk

and watercolor. 
oh, watercolor. 

i soak the page in liquid
until the expanse of it contracts and curls, 
ridges in the whiteness

and water pools in the dips
and soaks out of the highs, 

a touch of blue, 
and quickly
everything is cold ice-white
darker edges and soft purple rain

i tilt the page, 
just to watch the red roll down, 
merge with the yellow, 
a bright explosion of colors
that don't know how to mix

and i don't care about method, 
i drop tiny crumbs of salt onto the
still-wet green that stretches wide across the page

and when it dries, 
the color is something different. 

like frost on a window in November, 
and light edges on a moss backing

and suddenly
i am in love with watercolor

The End

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