"Paints of gold splatters fill her room as she smiles, dipping her paintbrush in the water and then dipping it in pink paint, she paints away a sunset that reminds her of her lover.
While she is painting and dancing around, her lover is writing. He is writing a poem about death and Graves, for his lover too. He writes it with passion and sadness, it really reflects on his writing, making it deep and meaningful. He cries as he writes.
The artist finishes her painting, looking at it with pride. She took it off the canvas stand, and ran to the living room, where her lover, the writer, was waiting.
They exchange their gifts. The writer looked at the sunset, and smiled. It was beautiful, the gold streaks of sunlight washing over the pink and purple clouds, and the light blue sky just peaking out of the clouds. The grass was dark and lush, the golden sun making it look almost unreal. Little birds flew in the distance, and there was a slight white mist to the painting, it was beautiful, and he smiled. Smiled through the dark tears of his writing.
While the artist cried. Reading the poem felt almost heart wretching. It was meaningful, but it wasn't love. Thou hers was made with pride and joy, his was made with sadness and Grey. The poem made her feel so undeniably sad, she dropped to the floor. She couldn't utter a word, she didn't even dare to look at the writer.
The writer put down the canvas by the couch and sat down, feeling all happy. He felt like a child, while the artist felt like a tall child.
He extended his hand to his lover, and she blindly accepted. She couldn't be mad at him when this is who he was. They were complete opposites, like cherry and oak. But they still worked.
They both were artist's in their own way, and loved eachother with love and sorrow.
Now, the writer stands at her grave with the pain, knowing he couldn't save her.
I miss her."
The writer finished his story about the artist, and left the stand. He went to sit back down, and watched as another person went up to talk about the artist.
The writer was sorry.
He was the reason why the artist was in a casket, and not a canvas.
