Tempura and Turpentine

Your lips are made of paint,
and I taste the egg tempera
in your saturated pigment.
My heart is made of ink,
and I see indigo bleeding
from your wet eyes.
Your blood is made of primer,
and I smell the fumes of
your sickly sweet perfume.
My touch is that of turpentine,
scrubbing you away until
you
are
nothing
at
all.