Bright white canvas standing in the middle of the room, longing to become a story.

My hands, queezing out the paint, like anecdotes, not quite interesting on their own, but intriguing when intertwined… I run the silky brushes’ hair on my palm, tickling the dormant artist in me.

I mix the colors slowly. Memories of your sweet lips on my palate, new tones awaking on the palette, trying to translate one into the other, in vain.

No need for a photograph, I tossed them all away. They were lying, showing flaws that aren’t yours. Betraying your true beauty. I much prefer closing my eyes, and watching you dance in my random souvenirs.

Contours traced, my hand is shaking… You come to life under my tiptoeing fingers, and I am moved to tears when our eyes meet again. I try a thousand times to match the shiny color of your irises, just to realize that no one deserves to know.

I play with your blurry lines, your silhouette caught in precise haziness. Fog lifting, revealing your scarred perfection…

Bright colors set aside, preferring your raw black and whiteness… Your many more than fifty shades of grey.

My muse, my mentor…

My beginning, my end. My alpha and omega.

My genesis and apocalypse!

Via today’s Word of the Day Challenge prompt: Genesis