Shuffling hands on my skin like you’re trying to collect patches of ink that has been smothered all over me. Wrying on the oblong, striving to copy the intricate details painted on the surface with utmost delicacy. Maybe you’re trying to establish the alacrity of this semblance or you’re having fun playing with your hands that are made of art. Your fingertips are leaving unexceptional pride on my skin, carving hope out of my disappointment.
Your touch is sucking my craft, as gullible as my body is becoming to you. You’re drawing me in and then you’re thinning me out. You’re destroying my imagination, you’re painting me new with your colours, the colours that tickle your soul. You’re recreating me. You’re sweeping me clean and you’re making a new art out of me, Your art.