Pigment [a poem]

Prone to breezes, I get carried away,
Steeped in my environment,
Though failing to dissolve.
The city was colored with visitors,
A crudely scrawled moustache
On the Mona Lisa, easily removed
But always replaced.

Bruised by the irony
Of fragile charcoal,
Exquisite color rubbed out
By time if not by hand;
I prayed for oil and a painter.
Someone to capture me and
Someone to fix me
To a lip, a breast, a heart.