First there is a yellow decision:
to be body
instead of background.

It spills onto the page like warm data,
blocks of sun-colored maybe,
and then the other colors arrive
as unsupervised learning.

Blue draws the first curve—
a tentative spine,
a highway for impulses,
a question mark that forgot
where to put its dot.

Magenta crashes in after that,
too loud, too honest,
highlighter ink that escaped
from a corporate workshop
and decided to reinvent tenderness.

Green shows up late,
like the friend who always says,
“Sorry, I just had to deal with my feelings,”
and you forgive it immediately
because that is exactly
what’s happening here.

Somewhere inside this riot
two faces appear,
or one face twice,
folded into itself
like a love letter
written and received
by the same person.

Are they kissing?
Are they consoling?
Is this a hug
or a firmware update?

DADA votes for all of the above.

The lines don’t outline bodies,
they remember them—
fast, shaky,
as if sketched
on a moving train of thought.

Arms loop around thighs,
knees blur into shoulders,
an elbow gets mistaken
for a confession.

Nothing is anatomically correct,
but everything is emotionally approximate.

In the middle
a luminous gap of untouched white:
negative space,
positive uncertainty.

This is where the breath lives,
where the “are you okay?”
and the “I think so”
hover without touching.

The colors keep layering.

Yellow lays down a base of warmth,
like a field of yes.
Blue crosses it
with a road of maybe.
Magenta throws small explosions
of I-mean-it-this-time.
Green stitches the edges together
whispering: stay, stay, stay.

From a distance
you see just one figure,
curling in on itself
like a comma after a long sentence.

Up close
you see the glitch:
another head tucked in,
another curve of shoulder.

Two?
One?
You choose,
and your choice says more about your week
than about the picture.

If you are tired,
it is self-embrace,
recovery mode,
full-body exhale.

If you are longing,
it is the kiss
you haven’t had yet today,
saturated in CMYK
for extra durability.

If you are sociological,
it is a diagram of intimacy
in late modernity:
multi-colored,
overlapping,
slightly misregistered,
printed one layer off
from how it felt.

There are no faces in the usual sense,
just areas where colors huddle
and decide to act like eyes.

One eye is a blue patch
surrounded by yellow doubt.
Another is a magenta smudge
that has seen things
and refuses to debrief.

The mouth is everywhere:
every sharp pink angle
could be a word starting,
every sudden blue stroke
could be a word swallowed.

Language, here,
has given up on grammar
and become choreography.

If you follow one blue line
from top to bottom,
you can feel the movement—
head to shoulder,
shoulder to hip,
hip to ground,
a whole sentence collapsing
gently into sitting.

The drawing has no background,
only aftermath.

Color bleeds outwards
until it forgets it was supposed
to stay behind the figure.

This is what happens
when emotions ignore
the memo about boundaries.

There’s a little turquoise flare
in the lower corner,
a small rebellion of sky color
that insists on being part of the body.

Maybe that’s hope.
Maybe it’s just a marker
that slipped.

In DADA,
these are synonyms.

You might look for a pig,
out of habit.
This could be a secret pigture,
three neon Schnitzel futures
hugging it out.

But no—
today the pig stays offstage,
listening,
taking notes
on how humans draw softness
when they’ve temporarily
forgotten about blame.

The embrace in the picture
is not polite.

It is messy,
asymmetrical,
all elbows and overlap.

It looks like the kind of hug
you give when time is short
and everything hurts
and words would only
tangle further.

Color stacks on color
the way days stack on days:
some bright,
some dull,
all semi-transparent,
bleeding into each other
until you can’t say
where Wednesday ended
and Thursday began.

If you tilt your head,
the whole figure becomes a flame.

If you tilt it the other way,
a knot.

Both are true:
to hold someone close
is to catch fire
and to tie yourself
to their weather.

There is no clear outline
because no relationship
has one.

We pretend,
on forms and in stories,
that bonds have clean edges:
partner, friend, family, other.

But in practice
they look like this drawing:
overprinted,
slightly off register,
gloriously imprecise.

At the bottom,
just before the colors run out,
a single curve of blue
turns back on itself,
like a question mark
deciding to be an answer
for once.

You can read it as a foot,
or as the last thought
before sleep.

The image does not end,
it just fades
where the markers gave up.

Somewhere outside the page
two real bodies exist
who might one day
fit this shape,
or might have already.

They will never know
they were drawn like this,
in neon tenderness,
inside an abstract afternoon.

But you know.

You’ve seen
how yellow can hold blue,
how magenta can soften green,
how a human curve
can be built
from broken pixels of color
and still feel whole.

The picture waits,
quiet now,
for the next viewer—

ready to rearrange its lines
and become their story
of the last time
they almost
let themselves
be held.