A painter sits before his easel and paints.
His brush is stirred by the wind of a language
that is not words.
She brushes the dreams out of her hair
as he paints the dust upon the canvas.
They both know that the future exists — somewhere,
but it is not here.
She brushes the moment aside
as he paints all the sounds the silence makes —
and she watches the moon rise
as he tells it which shapes to take.
She blows out her candle
and where the moon he painted glowed
there is now only a waft of curling smoke;
and his brush no longer burns with dreams,
but is the silver ash of a dying wick —
and it seems
that as she sleeps he paints only the sand
inside her eyes
and forfeits painting stars into the skies.
Written April 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from wallpaperpimper.com.