He waited for his canvas to speak. The brush steady between his fingers.
People, he thought he knew them, just with a gentle stroke, he could hold their fragile hearts in his hands.
She waited for his canvas to speak. A portrait..was all she wanted..he could make my eyes laugh, she thought. Perhaps, just a flicker of joy? A pinch of pink around my iris?
Impossible. The colors, wouldn’t mix. The brushes, wouldn’t budge. You’re an artist, coral reefs moved on your canvas, birds with broken wings soared up high, oceans roared and yet, yet..she..you can’t amend?
Paint the hurt away, paint it, the shred that rips a gouge into her heart and pulls her to the bottom of the abyss. It was always dark green wasn’t it? Paint it, that heavy, empty vastness that envelops her every time she tries to close her eyes in the lonely hours of the night. It was always black wasn’t it?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
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KissMyShades posted on 9:34 AM
I was there, as I was reading this, I swear it I was there, and I saw it all, your'e a great writer
please keep updating
The Dreamer posted on 9:38 AM
beautiful as always
Constant Catwalk posted on 11:44 AM
loooove it!
Diddlina posted on 4:27 AM
KissMyShades..this is a huge compliment coming from such a brilliant writer yourself :) Thanks for always passing by!
The dreamer : Thank you :)
mc T : Thanks my friend :)
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