I paint my way in black in white, br ominously blind br as you sleep on into a viscous, lulling night—your hair br crammed neatly between my fingers, br the bristles on a brush, I’m making br a new masterpiece: br a failure— br I wonder. br br a feat, br I wish ridiculously and br scream till I’m raw, br rubbed open so the optimism is br visible and rough br and sneaking br on into the day, on my br way home br through light and cloud and bright, bright, glaring white br shards of transient hope and the sporadic glassy glimpse of br that deepness of color, that midnight hue, br dark and secret as br that sadness I know br you carry with you like br a knife, gleaming, br waiting to slice out through the skin and br brush against these startled whispering fingers, br thinking they had a piece br of the glitter, br unfurling instead to release br more blood from my hands. dry and thick— br old and curdled as it has been, br untouched by the light: br br Currents subside, the wiry brush br clatters far beneath me and my palms are bleeding br ultramarine again, br Monochromatic and suffocatingly dense. br br Your hair is only hair br and the dark is only night. br br I crawl back into my skin and remember, br No more black and white.