he carefully traced his brush along the canvas,
its stem daring to fall from his fingertips.
his strokes were gentle, and when he mixes his colors he made sure it was the right one.
his splatters were all around the corners
but he’d go back to fix them.
he gently brushed his finger across her cheek,
his fingers weak, threatening to fall.
his touch was serene, resisting the temptation to scar her again.
the times he would make a mistake were uncountable,
but he’d always come back with an apology.
neither were perfect, and at the end of the day
his artwork was the one he loved more.