Picture It

When it began it was immense; a huge canvas that she spread her words on with a
palette knife; thick and gloopy; metaphors that melted him, images of hopes and
dreams that opened his eyes and his heart and his mind; alliteration that
lifted him out of himself and into her beautiful painting. As the days
passed the colours deepened and when the sun filtered through
the blinds in the mornings they glistened; still wet from the
night before. Days ran into weeks ran into months and
they lay content in each other; surrounded by oils and
brushes and words and images. Time passed by so
quickly; supplies ran thin; she watered down the
colours; tried to make them last but it was no
use. She struggled to find the jet black of
his hair; the burnt umber of his skin;
the liquid brown of his eyes. She
sent him away to search for the
words and the colours that she
needed but when he returned
she had gone; taking the
painting with her; leaving
behind an emptiness
he had never known
and it was as if
she had never
really been
there at
all
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