coloring

 

I have an emotional coloring book

made out of everything you say.

I crayon over other crayon marks.

I scribble nervousness out of me.

I press hard, 

wishing I had words to say back.

not sure at times,

where the pages end 

and the floor continues to invite me.

you make my hands cramp

from internal state of laughter and delight.

so many colors cross my being.

I don't make images,

but I live for the strokes that come.

pages scatter, 

as if they were never bound.

luckily, I don't work in charcoal,

for the darkness 

would be too much from beyond.

crayons are what my emotions knead.

I am a fistful of heartthrobs unceasingly.

without any of this,

I would be a nervous wreck.

but you are,

as the vocal images

and I then fill in the blanks . . .