I am cold,

skin stretched over bone to form a shape people will love.

I am moldable,

flexible enough to change,

and faded enough to where they’ll color me the way they want.

But I have my own colors.

Colors I keep hidden so you can use yours, and words I swallow so you can say yours.

Because I am mixture of habits and passion,

of love and sayings, all crammed into a jar and placed on a forgotten corner.

So we can use yours.

I am an empty vessel taught to stay bare so that others might find some use in me.

A hidden jar waiting to be opened

so that someone might love me for the colors I wear and the words I speak.

So that someone might appreciate the canvas I paint with passion

and the habits in which I roll in.

“Stop” they say.

For I am to be barren and malleable,

soft and quiet.

A blank sheet of paper in which they can scribble on and then discard.

 

But that’s not love.

Love is my jar being open so that all that’s me is absorbed into the empty balloon I have become.

Love is our words mixing together to form a declaration

and our colors blending to form new rainbow.

Love is seeing the passion leak into our eyes as we expel it in a fiery breath.

Love

is the silence.

The open ears listening as the other talks.

The small touches and open palms ready to help when one falls.

Love is a cup of coffee waiting in the kitchen counter,

a red blanket placed upon your sleeping form,

an inappropriate laugh and the memories that follow.

Love is ageless and sexless.

A spark across the room.

A friendship that

is more.

Love is work,

and respect,

and a bundle of surprises in which we get lost in.

Love is the commitment.

Love is warm.