The Colors of the Skin

Each skin a canvas. Empty at first. A mother’s kiss, a father’s touch. And it begins to show its colors. It grows into an endless ever-changing masterpiece of shades and shapes and flavors. Orange liquid drops from a sunset kiss. Raspberry Turkish Delight. Velvety chocolate memories from a trip far away. Fingerprints drawing a secret map of desires and dreams. Some full of light, some darker than night. Silvery salty grains. Traces on cheeks from sorrow and joy. Gazes that dwell in corners sometimes forgotten, sometimes remembered. Brown, blue and green and some with changing colors. Brushstrokes which sometimes soothingly caress and sometimes cruelly cut and burn.

Yet I love life. This restless artist that paints all colors of my skin.

Aventurile lui Piticot: flori

– Mami, a înflorit magnolia!

– Da, iubitule, am văzut.

– A înflori și liliacul, mami, vezi?

– Da, dragostea mea.

– Mami și tu știi că și tu ai înflorit?

– Cum așa, mami?

– Da, mami. Tu nu vezi? Ești plină de flori.


I sail today. First morning wind as ally.  Deep crystal blue my pathway. Minuscule grains of salt, soft angels wings on shoulders. The golden rays as lovers, caress and burn and paint pale cheeks bright red in sinful painful pleasure. I sail today. I do!