I handed you each of my memories,
and you put them into picture frames.
“I made them into art,” you said,
cradling my head, letting my lips
rest more and more into your palms.
I find my mind’s your kind of paradise,
a place to fool around in, slap colors
on a pale face, flip time on its side,
erase a furrowed brow and a hanging fist.
I find that nothing from me
ever looks the same as it once did.
That’s the point, that’s why my memories
are yours to take away. But you were never
supposed to give them back.
I never was supposed to see anything
other than black-and-white.