He waits—
silent
as bare branches
a patient one
against the flat of her canvas
where colors sleep
where light has been bruised
from greedy fingers—
she hesitates
to take shape—
she needs more time
and he is someone
to watch.

She lingers—
brush poised
waiting—
colors unborn
shadow stretching her wings—
hidden in scarred shoulders.

And only then—
when time bends soft
from her patience
does she lift her art
and inspire
the flame—

And then
does she paint.