When I think of colors I think of the picture I still have shoved under my mattress. I'll never think of colors and rain the same way again as I did when I mixed love with art. You were my canvas and I painted myself in all the wrong places creating a blur of smudges. That picture is all I have left of what it meant to run without washing my hands, smudging pinks and blues across the edges. Where's your copy? Is it in a drawer or in a mess under old clothes thrown in a dusty corner? I loved you back in May the first time we discovered love in a photograph, thin pink branches of glass droplets threatening to fall if we breathed in the wrong direction.
