…And on the tip of her paintbrush
lies euphuistic lines sketching magical visions.
She spills ink unto the canvas of souls
but with the still silence of words
that etches images of delight in ribcages
with the rhythm of bliss we soon breathe. 

For with the stain of bleeding hearts
she composes a color that outlines the 
grandeur of the velvety pink skies
in oils at sunrise.
Unto the tears at dawn- she illustrates
the aurora of cerulean seas at dusk.

With her brush bristle are brittle loves made to an
impasto that withstands the splintered rain.
Pastels of colors-violet and azure that
mends broken rainbows in the cloudless skies
retracing her footsteps to mine.
Musings whispering air into the moonlit landscape. 

Frescoes of cerise and crimson stars 
on heaven’s wall with red rose sunlight that
pierces lilac flowered fields and sweetens the dew.
Her portrait- an image in stanzas of the ethereal.
She is- the Envy of Picasso; The muse of Cézanne.
The words woven into the skin of my fingers. 

you..

(it would never work)

but..

(it would never work)

but i..

(it would never work)

i..

(it would never work)