I am painted self-portraits.
My hair rain-soaked moire taffeta,
my eyes 120 seasons of looking
through chartreuse since you,
my lips full nude, honest with envy
that I am not the one kissing you.
Each drop of rain off the roof is
varying shades of a baby’s room
we shall never see together
because you are hers.
Because she has belonged
to you in her shades of
honey blond falling to her waist,
falling to her knees for you.