I take a seat, on the thrift store chairs in the corner of your studio apartment. The dust seems to highlight itself while passing through the sunbeams in your window. I watch you, with your hair tied back into a bun and hands covered with dye. The chair is uncomfortable, but it's worth watching you smile. As I sit, I watch you scramble for pencils and brushes, muttering expectations to the ghosts around you. I lounge around, for hours at a time. Sipping the old bourbon your father got us on my birthday. Enticing the tongue just as well as my eyes. The amalgamation of your efforts seems to bear some resemblance of a fruit now. You, entranced in the ferocity of the colours. My jacket hangs on the old coatstand we made out of curtain railings, it's almost sunset now, and you're as excited as ever. Bourbon turns into wine, wine turns into fruit. Sitting on the floor, next to your canvas. One of paint, one of love. Feeding you the occasional slice of orange in your muse filled frenzy.You're beautiful like that, when you lose yourself in the eyes of your own making. When you find yourself in the paint on your own hands. The epiphanies you have, bring smiles to my face. I watch you give love to a blankness. A soul to nothing, and are offered everything in return. It's music to my ears, every excited chuckle, every brush stroke, every second the pencil scratches. I could listen to your creation a hundred times over. It's midnight now, we're both drowning the small apartment in laughter, painting on each others bodies. You, much better than me. The painting is almost done, and I could not be happier. Fruit turns into love and love turns into a hug. Your paint stained hands reaching accross my neck, you burying your head into my shoulders. My clothes are dusty, touched with paint, but I could not care less. I ease backwards. Onto creaky wooden floorboards. As you lay ontop of me, losing your consciousness in my embrace, finding sleep in my arms. I lay there,Staring upwards through the strands of your hair. The canvas, lined oh so perfectly above us. The sound of nothing but the watch my father gave me, accompanying my gaze onto your creation. I hold you tight, the moonlight covering us in her protection. I lay under you, keeping you from the dust and roughness of the unpolished floors. I begin to drift off, with the sensation of you in my arms, and the image of your creation in my eyes. So as my eyes close, the lavender hues of the canvas dissapear, and I am left with nothing but the image of a lilac city, fresh in head. Off we go, my love. We'll take care of your painted body tomorrow. Right now, rest. I have you. Always.