I see you in watercolour, pale pink and yellow and ivory, dark hair damp against your forehead, your head tipped back against the chairtop, a burning cigarette held absently in laquered fingertips.
The slow, deep drag, skin stretched and hollow, sucking, sighing.
There is beauty in this pain, this sickness, this weight, but the photograph I take fails to capture the image and so I see you in watercolour and wish that I could paint.
