If my sweat had a color
it would smear and melt into the places your torso missed the most
like the palm of my hands.
I would curve my wrist and let seeping Salvador slip to my fingertips
and trace the places of my room where you left your scent.
I would leave these visual traces of you so that people would stop thinking me crazy everytime I claimed to feel your presence.
If my sweat had a color,
it would be caked within the crevices of you abdominals,
left under your fingernails
and tinting the diamond you will give your future wife.
She will see me every time she amires it;
the color of the woman she will never be.
The one you were always meant to have.
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