White

You're cocained white paint
that powders my walls.
I want to handle you,
but my hands would tar you,
smear blemish on you,
ruin my perfect ivory beaut.

So I lay prostrate in lieu,
a cornea's distance from you
with my eyelids buckled down,
vigilantly not peeking through.

And I imagine your snow flake view
and pretend that two can bask in your hue
and that I could plaster my bare walls, too.

I levitate closer,
clearly unworthy of you:
burned, blackened, bludgeoned
but only I know
only I would ever know by whom.