My page pales in comparison to the wild, cluttered images that paint my mind.
Yesterday I stood in the sunshine – cleansing, unchanging. It didn’t wash me of you.
Today I stand in the moonlinght – pure, enlightening.
My painting of us is ambiguous but remarkable.
I just paint you.
In images that appear when I think of me, of us.
Smooth lines, deep colors, abrupt and soothing.
A masterpiece undiscovered in the depths of me.
My restless search has become a misleading journey.
No priceless creations.
I reached out and asked you to slow me down.
Now we stroke the canvas.
Can’t guide myself through this.
As Monet painted vanilla skies and Davincci put Mona on skin,
Help me hold the brush, stretch this canvas.
I paint you, paint us, with this heart called my brush.