Decant

Red cracks—
paintings in a smoker's house.
Four AM craves her
in gray lust, brown
letters tangled
in her curls.
She's beautiful.
Through those cracks—
we'd never seen someone
so decorous in black and white.
Fingers curl into bister
on paper;
eyes spread
across the sofa bed,
half-and-half on canvas.
Decay never hugged her knees
the way it held her heart.