Purple

I had dreamt of purple and you had laughed at me. Deep baritones of laughter that painted around us with heavy strokes and we were encased. Thick purple paint.
And as we lay there, naked and coloured, and your arms wrapped round me like dominoes, I blinked and squirmed from the weight and light of it all.
If only we could laminate ourselves and protect our colour because I can't stand the fragility, I can't bear the exposure.
And each time I feel you pressing and toiling above me, cutting me with your tongue, grabbing my skin, I bubble and burn, I forget. I forget that I need to guard this paint.
I will fall silent and you will trace me as I move away. Your breath follows me round the room, sticking to my ears and my neck, your patience, your comfort.
Are you always this kind?
If the sun crept in and fell too strongly on us would we blister, the paint crackle and pool at our feet? Would we laugh at each others raw skin and resent the eyes that witnessed its reveal?
I have been painted before, in different colours, I have never been a good canvas.