Every canvas that found itself a residence of your home, confine designs of random art junctures. You grew a sense of grant when working on your pieces. Not concerned if you were good or not. Your wife loved seeing your eyes droop as a brush brought breath to whatever entertained your wonder.
"You ever gonna paint me?" her hands took your waist, dewing her lips, small kisses amongst your collarbone.
You were deciphering on the sheet whether a bird or form of abstract stood tall on the canvas was a debate.
"I'm no Picasso, I wouldn't do you justice" you spoke, a feeble peck on your nose, running silence and subtle breathing. You appear a weary smile.
"I rather your perception than his perfect", her voice holding a truth, kissing your warm shoulders attiring a damp-seaweed tone strap that droops a casual rest with a distinctively placed set of ruffles.
"You look beautiful right now" a whisper from her, now addressing your cleavage.
"Thank you, baby" You willed, her head falling on yours as you both caress visually her painting.
"It's a butterfly". She familiarise the shapes, eyes structuring your claim, nodding.
"I can't precisely paint you, but I can symbolize" You turned your full body, she's trapped between soft fabric and thighs.
A kiss placed like a feather on the depth of your forehead, a fit grip on her back, your iris of nutty diary kissing hers.
Temples together "Like a butterfly, your surface holds charm and beauty and my girl, every layer you let me on, I will paint a crappy moon and I will raise a sunset for you Elizabeth,". Now, she's spacing her own butterflies a soft stomach to dispute. ".. let's drift into that sunset and abandon everyone," you deluded.
Her urge to escape pounces an off-guard kiss of passion and agreement, returning to the widened frame of your features
"just us and the sun." she affirms.
