It’s Sunday, and it’s morning.
You’re sat up at the breakfast bar,
elbows propped, coffee in hand,
legs crossed and bare,
pearly in the breaking light,
a pale, blue button-down does little to cover,
and I too feel exposed with this obvious grin,
not so much staring at you
as bathing,
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your colour,
your magic,
and I ready myself to paint a masterpiece,
but stop short.
Head tilted, stepping back.

I lay my wetted brush,
and soak in primal views.
I could never paint a picture
quite as beautiful as you.