Are we not like paints?

                  Are there not countless rows upon rows of shades and colours?

       Can we not be brushed, splattered, like vocal cords of red and blue

                                whispering

                against a canvas,

                                                screaming
                                                                            maybe, sometimes?

                 Do we not long to be

                         mixed,

         to touch and overlay each other, with our own

                                                                      textures and vibrancies laid together,

        like interwoven fingers licking each other?

                           And isn't there very little left to say of

                                                           lines,
                       when colours run together,

     
       flowing and blurring and b(lead)ing
                                                into each other where they meet,


                                                                      much like the spit between lovers' lips?
             
                       
                      You can call me blunt, but I'm a messy painter myself.