SHIVER
I want to rob you of color. I want your purple jailed in pointed streaks down my back, your green running down the hollow of my neck. I want the gray of your coat around the whites of my eyes, the brown of your eyes falling in waves from my hair. I want the white of your ceiling wrapped around my legs, flecks of the beige on your walls on the backs of my knees. I want my shoulders bathed with topaz, my elbows dipping in onyx. I like the thrill of your lime, the sexy of your blue. I need arms made of jade. I need fingers tipped in rubies, a belly made of pearl. I want socks made of sapphires to cover my toes. I want the yellow cotton fibers from the collar of your shirt, the green southern pines on the hillside near your house. I want the leafy green stems in the garden by your brook; I want the soft coral petals from the flowers in your yard. I want all of your fire. I want nothing left red. I want the ink from your books in smudges on my mouth. I want my ears to hear only your white sound; I want my lips to shiver black.