.
Her skin is mottled blue,
like the halo that
graces her eyes.
.
They’re hickeys born
of lipstick stains–
the rough woolen
threads of his
jaundiced nails and
the stolen kisses of
his two-by-fours.
.
She wears it around
though, that skin of
mottled blue–
love’s crowning glory.
.
It is a coat, knitted
by his golden tooth
and anvil fists, prized.
It is a story written in red.
.
His fingers made it
with petals plucked
from the cornflowers
grown on her face.
.
His tongue wove it
with the cornflowers
tended on her arms, and
his foot crocheted the
shades of blue on her legs.
.
Then his love
sewed it on her
flesh and etched it
on her bone, with
the cornflowers
watered by her tears.
.
He is her rose.
.
She is his garden.
