her.
the shadowed light reflects against the ivory walls,
olive threading encased her in warmth and
her knotted locks secure in loose bun atop her head.
apricot drops splatter the floor,
her thimble fingers clasped around the slim wooden brush,
sunflower petals decorate the rigid canvas created by the silky onyx bristles.
him.
her voice breaches his ears as she sings along to the latest melody blaring in the background.
he taps the dandelion graphite against his frayed sketchbook,
his cerulean eyes flicker between the scene before him and the eraser marked paper on his lap.
he focuses on her boysenberry lips,
the dusted peach blanketing her eyelids,
and her brows furrowed in concentration.
his hand races to capture it all with his messy lines and charcoal dust.
but,
she is art.
the kind of art that belongs in the museums.
not one of the elegant paintings hanging on the beige walls,
or the marble sculptures missing arms,
she is the little girl running from exhibit to exhibit,
the young clumsy couple full of love holding hands,
the elderly man clutching his lukewarm mocha smiling as he observes it all.
she is the hidden art within the world,
the art that deserves its own god damn museum,
but is always far too overlooked.
