He is a painter.
He chooses his colors carefully
and with swift motions,
he slides the brush across the canvas.
His hands are lean,
bony structures.
My eyes linger at those hands,
and for a moment
I forget that he is painting.
I see emotion as they work,
and I crave to hold them,
to feel their creative strength.
There is a power that radiates
from hands that create.
But alas,
it is the paintbrush that he holds
and his mind is too occupied by its colors.
He continues working, uninterrupted by
my slow glances.
I wish I could speak,
but it is impossible to find
a single word on his canvas
for me to say.
No part of myself will ever contribute
to his masterpiece.
So, I watch him work in silence
and long after the painting is finished
It's just myself
and a work of art,
both now untouched by the artist.
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