Her golden hair flows
lazily down her back.
The gentle sweep
of her brush against canvas,
soft hands across naked skin.
A sliver of moonlight seeps
through the slit in the curtains and pools itself
at the ends of her hair. From her roots come
a million strands of citrine crystals,
illuminating my bedroom with oranges and reds and yellows and
I wonder if the sun
could compete
with her effortless radiance.
She gives me a
Look, over her paint-splattered
shoulder and I decide definitely:
No.
It could
Not.