I asked her to paint bricks
Warm red upon my back
Like rigid piles of broken geometry
Upholding me

Her hand is unsteady
As tender flesh is met with brittle hairs
Scraped from my own scalp
And dipped into the vast pot of superstition

My body is artwork
Mortally wounded
Wound around a door of glass
Transparently locked with longing

She has promised me a garden
Growing hidden silken shapes
Stretching from their insides and into my hair
Spreading a visual fragrance across my patchwork tiles

But as of yet I've stood silent
Slightly dim
Rust colored skin faded and
Coldly juxtaposed between concrete buildings

A sun burnt stone
Forgotten before her very eyes