They say an artist pours all his love
onto the canvas.
And in his eyes
the painting is never completed.
it is always
a work in progress.

waiting to be flawless.
Awaiting the perfect finishing touch
A simple brush stroke here
A touch of cobolt blue there.
Never satisfied that his
creation is complete.

And for me I follow my ritual
When you go to leave for work
In the morning.
I touch back a lock
of your tousled hair.
And fold it from your forehead
back in place.
Like a mothers touch to her son.

More as a deepest sentiment of love
Letting you know
that you belong to me.
And that my small ritual of revision
Is the deepest form of affection.