He always adored the way she held the brush in her left hand, lazily spinning it between her fingers without a care for the flecks of paint that kissed her skin like aquamarine freckles. She had a six sense, able to find an entire story kept captive within a blank canvas, and she swore it her artistic obligation to bring it into view. And like a mirage, slow forming from a dusty infinity of nothing, it always seems a trick made of the mind, at first. A wisp rises, just a single streak that stretches against the canvas to start the story.
And his little artist might purse her lips before continuing, her cheeks pulling inward to show off her bone structure. He knows that's what must be there, bone, but to think she's built of broken rainbows and unimaginable shades simply makes more sense. Her skin is already stained with so much, both past scars and pigmentations from paint splatter. He imagines the rose work that occasionally clouds her flawless face with a blush must be painted on as well, another wisp that couldn't be contained. As she tucks her brush behind her ear, a wet pecked kiss of tangerine licks at her hair, adding some color to the almost winter white strands. Seeing the contained smile against his lips, she reaches towards this spot, her fingertips caressing the paint like her brush does the canvas.
A tender touch between lovers to make an otherwise unrealized masterpiece.
She laughs, the soundtrack to his life, and dips her fingers in a swatch of neon green. Her fingers run through her hair, leaving waves of color in their wake. Reaching the end of the strands, she curls her fingers, ringlets of greens and tangerines bouncing against her sun-colored bare shoulders.
And then a look takes to her eyes, a blue that changes shade so often, he'd gladly suffocate within them just to define the name. A similar swatch sits near her easel, her fingertips dipping in for a taste.
His hair, and heart, would never be the same.
Not with this paint-stained leftie keeping his life in such a vivid coloring.
A reminder that every mess has its masterpiece.
You shouldn't be so concerned with the clean up.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
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