A Dance of Hands
A boy composed of color.
A living kaleidoscope, adding twists and turns to my life that weren't there before.
Showing me pigments and hues that I never knew existed.
A boy who turned me into a painting, and guided me off my canvas.
No longer a motionless figure of brushstrokes.
Now alive because of his reach in my direction.
His hand, the paintbrush, illustrating me into the atmosphere.
His lips, the palette, luring shades of blush to the surface of my skin.
His body, the easel to rest the frame of mine upon.
Each break of dawn was spent finding ways to return me to my canvas, more complete than I was before, and finding new patterns of light for your mind to create.
But we both soon learned that my existence, seen through your world of optical instruments, was more unfamiliar than expected.
My intuitions became uncontrollable, so I lead them to the palm of your familiar hand.
And so we began our dance.
My ideas pivoting and distorting, just to match the words you placed into the spaces between our fingers.
My fingers trying to figure out how to recollect the strings of my own marionette, and not stay so tightly intertwined between each of your knuckles.
Your knuckles looked best when they worked with your fingertips to unfasten the cage around my chest.
My chest has been influenced to roam, but your stability is a quiet flicker of light, begging my feet to stay just down the road.
And how badly they want to.
But my feet are the roots of winter jasmine. Not here for long, and only establishing to the places we have come accustomed to.
If you can't figure out where that is, then grab your map. Turn on your flashlight, point it in the direction your hands shake unsteadily at, and start walking.
It is a long journey to find the answers of, "How could this work?", but look through your fabrications of colors and angles.
We were not formed for our trails to join symmetrically.
So take the alleys. Cross over the bridge, and then cross over the next. Take a left at the avenue, a right at the lane, and then find your way back into our orbit.
And if you can't find me, then redefine your pigments and hues.
Make them matter outside of the stained glass, and reflective mirrors.
Throw them into the night sky.
Set your own fireworks ablaze.
Know that it meant something, then begin again.
© 2017 Xandra Lang