in dreams i’m holding
the brush again,
my index finger pointed
at bristles heavy with paint.
from across the room
i can barely make out
her silhouette
beneath a flimsy sheet,
and enthralled
by the rise and fall
of her chest
with each passing breath
my trembling hand
dares transpose
her indescribable beauty,
stroke by stroke.
and then i wake —
left with only
a barren canvas unable
to hold her shape.
