he watched her as she sat
at her easel, missing the way
her fingers touched his face the
same way she glided the brush
across the canvas.
the rays danced through the window
and rested on her face softly,
making him miss the way his
own skin touched hers.
the sun through the window diffused
through his own cells, but with
it’s warmth he could only feel
her, and with its light he
could only see her.
he watched as she sat at her
easel.
but all that remained was the
sun through the window.

— a small story with its own meaning #1 by em @serenhity