until they loosen with
soft stiffness,
forgetting weeks of uncare,
shedding speckled dust.
i retrieve the shapes
while inking the dots
of your facelipsnoseeyes
with that abundance of hair
everywhere,
everywhere
but against my skin.
i mix
the blue and grey,
the pink too, but that
is just an accident.
soon, the failed and fading
yellow blends,
with the black with brown,
running to places
they shouldn't go.
and when i rinse,
i remember,
this brush cannot draw
the shapeliness of your nose,
nor colors find the right shade
for your cheeks. and your
eyes i have mutilated
with an unhealthy dose
of overflowing blues.
your hair, tangled into
a melting ball, oozing out of your
topless skull
and the skin surrounding it
bloodied
with what appears to be
a funeral veil.
so i settle the artificial heads
of hair back to collect
dust and cold, and walk
to your unrecognizable face,
almost dry, now,
though still stained,
looking for only four
more seconds before i tear,
tear. with wrinkled hands.
with half-closed eyes.
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