Mistleton and Other Men

He came in saturated color—
indigo pressed warm,
violet drunk with promise.
Every shade forward leaning,
layered heavy enough to ensure
he wouldn’t lift the brush.

White broke through like a time bomb—
a bold, uncorrected stroke.
Indigo sharpened at the edges,
close, electric, intimate,
as if a painting had chosen me
as its surface.

For one breath, he was nothing but light—
overexposed, stripped of outline,
desire so bright it erased all caution.
Without speaking, everything said stay.

Then he pulled the color back.

White diluted to apology,
indigo blurred to distance,
violet faded to retreat.

He wiped the canvas clean where he stood,
leaving a pale residue of intention,
and stepped away—

as if the stroke had never been meant for me.