you read too many books and i watch you
because while you are studying the gift of words
i study you
i paint every picture in likeness of you
so when you look at my walls you see your own eyes
and hair like the wind scribbled there in dusty ink.
you never let go of the concept that i might be a good person
hidden under the onion layers of dried and crusty feelings
but i am smarter than you so i write across your palm with blue paint
and watch it smear on your freckled cheek when you wipe the tears away.
you write words in chains around your head and they braid your eyelashes
into ropes that catch me and pull me in when i try to walk away
every inch of you is an artist's playground and i want to be the one
to swing from your ribs and kiss your lips.
i think i put too much thought into every gift i deliver through words
because you never pay attention, just nod--i can feel you wondering
why i never try harder for you.
you never understood that you were a fragment in every thought bubble i have
so you pop them on accident and don't try to apologize.
neither of us have ever been good at words,
so i know i'll always read the pages of your skin like the books you love so much.