By Elise Lusk
There’s frost on the window he’s leaning against.
I watch the moonlight weave through the cracks in the trees-
how the light traces the outline of his back
but leaves him black and blank.
I ask the outline for a paintbrush
to fill in the missing details of his ebony silhouette.
I want to dot a blend of Cadmium yellow and Burnt Sienna down his shoulders
and wake the forest freckles that shake like trees in the breeze when he laughs.
I want to carve out his left shoulder’s scar using a pallet knife
and watch its origin story spill like watercolor from his lips.
I want to use a flat filbert to block in the shapes of the insulin pump on his hip
and sgraffito scratch away the dried paint until only raw canvas of him remains.
He walks towards me and smirks:
“You don’t know how to paint.”
He takes my dress in his hands, pulls it over my head, and shuts the blinds.
He doesn’t want me to see him.
I sit up, face the wall, and push him away
when he reaches for my hand.
He doesn’t know
I was accepted into art school.
He doesn’t know
I can’t sleep with the blinds closed.
But my dress is already on the floor
and the frost on my window
is starting to
melt.
I close my eyes and let the outline find me.
Maybe he’ll let me paint him
Tomorrow.