We Are Artists: A Poem


We aren’t lovers,

We are artists.

We don’t touch each other,

He paints over my imperfections

While I refine his flawlessness.

We don’t explore one another,

I implore him to recreate me,

Wash away the thorns pricking my skin

As he plants kisses all over my body.

And when I’m finally his,

He makes me my own.

He opens veiled doors

Where I find roses that the thorns had defeated.

Red is his favorite color,

Mine is the color of his scent

If such a thing exists.

Ecstasy is his chosen drug,

Mine is his affection,

His breath on my skin.

We aren’t lovers,

We are powerless survivors.

And like dominoes we will fall

When the roses meet their maker.

But until then,

I’ll be his and

He’ll make me my own.

– Rubani Kaur

Artwork Credit: Unknown

6 Comments Add yours

  1. vidur sahdev says:

    Beautiful, Rubani!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much. 😊

      Liked by 1 person

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