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
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your colour,
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.