Impetus for the fall

With this hand
with this brush
I paint you
the highlight of your cheek
the luminosity of your eye
the sensual bow of your lip
moist from a tongue touch
the open akimbo of your legs
inviting me in
the pull of your sweater violet shadows
the line of your arm
to your perfect hands
the color of crimson at the tips
with this brush
I could touch all of you

-The bad little Corby