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There were lovers once who thought they were alone
one night in the Glasgow School of Art.
Reckoned that only they could take a palette knife
to scrape off their Sfumato surfaces,
find each other underneath as blank canvases willing
to create something out of their vigorous skin,
seek purchase in grams per square metre depth,
as they try to fill every gasping fibre.
I had never seen them together before, it was possibly
a grab for the last copy of a book on Warrender.
A cute meet they call it in film, and they talked in tongues
as they tried to find a word for no while their lips said yes.
I watched them spill, brush drying in my hand, the piece
I had been working on all night, cinders
already in my jealous eyes, I longed to be in their place –
simple palettes of pink flaming against indigo night.
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Featured Image: Barn Images (CC0)