Time and I shook hands in accordance of priority,
And yet it slipped
As clay molded into the other.

Though priority seems irrelevant
As sketch finds friend in word
And paint aligns with ballpoint,
(Strange intermingling with the air between skin)
Innovation sculpted in the throat
And hung in rows of blank sheets under the shade cast by our tongue.
They rip by our words
And cough, then, the hues
Splattered into the space around our lips
That is freckled
As the art couches to fit between artists