Crooked Paintings

Curled up On the tiny blue sofa Beneath the open window With the wispy curtains With the blue flowers Somewhat reading Gatsby Somewhat thinking of you Floating in And out Of consciousness Wishing I was in that field Cold damp grass Beneath my pale feet You are wishing to touch my skin Fingering oil paints across my canvas Painting a world on my body Connecting my freckles To match the constellations Shrouded by the darkness up above The sky opens up Hands linger on parts of me That long for them to return Tracing my jaw line Running up my spine Caressing the nape of my neck Whispering my name Rain drops wash the paint away Sunlight glistens through the crystals Hanging down from my ceiling My mind clarifies Sun stained eyes magnify