Poem -
Hands
When paintbrush tips contain life-blood.
I imagine my hands
the tips of paintbrushes.
D e l i c a t e l y
they brush the world around me.
Admittedly, the color is faint, but it does exist.
One day
I will drown myself
in that beautiful hair
and
the world
will never be the same.
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Oh, I love this!