Artful

Lust is a verb, walking
too far ahead of itself.
The sky looks down on us
like raindrops falling lower
into grey. All monochrome.
Seasons slipped around
the raise of your voice,
too loud, so real. Left me
thinking what it means to be an entity.
The word sounds too complete,
for your dusty glances over
my body, like I am not a masterpiece.
I held your hard heart
with the delicacy of
dripping blood on snow.
I made you melt. Never fit
between your lines. Artful.
You were colourblind.