Silver

Joaquin: paint-besotted at sixteen.

The color silver was your favorite --
it had the craved-for, biting glint
of a dagger dizzying your brain,
twisting as it mixed and chopped
your few surviving thoughts,
which floated, glittering,
in an icy silver mist.

Your classic, sculpted nose,
bearing a single dot of silver
smaller than a dime, expelled
the smell you struggled to breathe in.

And your eyes drowned in a sea of silver.