Finger Painting

They are standing on a wooden platform

waiting for a train that, honestly,

neither of them are sure will ever come.

He feels the need to comment on the weather—

it’s snowing—

as he folds his frame around the railing,

gray stained sticky green from gum,

and his head subjects to gravity’s rule that

everything must go down.

Yeah, it is, she says out loud,

only thinking how lucky the sky is

to have found a way to cry

when tears won’t come.

The pale winter blue seems to paint itself for miles

as she stares out to the solitary track, the

outline of the nothing

in front of them,

minus the dead grass and other lifeless things.

Gloved hands press under her chin,

elbows aching on the rough bar,

she turns her attention from the sky,

watches his down-turned face

from behind the dark veil of hair

the wind keeps closing on her.

His knees bend, stretching against dark denim,

and as his forehead rests near her jacketed elbows,

she notices his own winter skies

are shedding rain.

Baby, no…don’t, thick gloves on his shaking shoulder.

His face fights against rules to look up

at her,

thick pools of blue gray paint

dripping down his face.

Then brown, from his mouth,

and black and red and green,

chest, legs, hands,

body painting in the canvas of snow.

I’m a mess, he whispers,

bitter stares to the stains around him.

Darling, no, she pulls off her gloves,

dips bare fingers into the wooden palette,

paints a line on the ground,

wraps paint splattered arms around him.

You’re beautiful.