In puddles
I search for reflections,
Counting colours as water becomes
Her own palette,
Paper,
Her own bruise of blue.
The umbrella leaks paint
In waves of blood,
Weather bleeds
Down watercolour cheeks,
Swept
With a rain-washed
Make up brush.
The stained coat cries
Her blood-drip colour scheme,
Falling
Through fingers,
Smudged
Beneath the muted storm,
Flooding
The echo
Of a distant city,
Where ponds become paint
And I become art.
