i stand in front of a blank canvas
white…
empty…
quiet…

as i dip the brush, the noise starts…

touch the linen with three
and my mouth fills with hot, stinging red
like cinnamon burning the back of my throat…

bleed five into the corner
pure and green…
like crushed borage leaves and lime zest…

nine
drips delicately from the bristles…
pricks at my tongue…
lemony and bright… 

and the weight of seven
bright purple velvety juice exploding in my mouth…

stepping back…
i savor the taste…
waiting for the colors to dry