In the photograph
I am a wall
reflected
in your eyes.
I am a beetle.
I am exotic.
I am wrong.

My skin is not a palette you would taste.
I do not stick to your brush,
oily on your tongue,
Beneath the red of which whispers:
I am a blank canvas.
I am a wall.
A palette covered in white,
or black.

That is what your eye kisses,
a black and white negative.
The closest you know is grey,
smooth on your gums.
But there are no black and white people
Laughing in this photograph,
And if your lips would meet
And you stopped
leaning on me
You would see,

My concrete is laced with rainbows.
It is not smooth at all.