There is a color for each part of you.

You insinuate erotic hues in brilliant purple
and pale blue that grip me like sticky animals.

Insinuations of androgyny,
hooded in the obesity of darkness,
repel from chest to thigh as
captured steam hums
a veil of opaque milk around your body.

Your eyes fall in recession.

This elocution is a mild current oxidizing
between teeth and lips—pudding
rusty orange on your mouth and finally
turning pasty cracks into moist particles.

An orchestration as beautiful
as obsidian, smooth and glassy,
Gaudy enough to decorate with.


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