Colors

I see your canvas splashed,
brushed with treks and lines of red,
my soul skips a beat,
even when there is no beat.
The orange in your paintings
feels as if my tongue is tasting
orange peeled in the middle
of a hot summer's day.
These black lines you etch
from the Arctic circle
to the end of Earth
engulf color, vigor, life and zest.
Death sits in the crevices,
and I know, know this
that life revolves around it.
Bands of blue shoot up,
through the stratosphere,
traveling the empty expanse of space,
and pierce our globe of golden fire,
shattering and pouring yellows,
reds, and mixture of pinks in the
hair of your paintbrush.
I know not what will become of us.
But this I know:
your colors enter my veins.