Wet Paint (a poem)

I dropped a can

Of Orange

On the bed where we lay lying,

Too frivolous in nature to keep our touch from dying

Bruised fingertips

And swollen lips,

But none of them for me.

My stubbornness deters you from the place you ought to be.

I start to think that maybe we could make our shades in Purple:

My Blues

Your Pinks

If all combined could help us break this circle.

But in your eyes,

With their Green flecks,

The truth is all too clear:

You never will be simplified to shades in waves and tears.

So on this bed, I sit and keep our fingertips from grazing.

The scent of all my orange paint endearing but quite dazing

I smile to see you stand and leave,

I’m left with all but sorrow

I close my eyes and think about the wet sheets washed tomorrow.

Ross Lynn

P.S Thank for reading. I post a lot of my writings as well as other stuff on my Instagram which you can find here.

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