there are stains of paint trapped in the rolls of her sleeves
like the fly that lives
in my cobwebbed shed
little fragile splatters of creativity

And I can't help but notice how
The light dances on her face
Not a waltz or a ballet
But newfound art unrecognised
and a beauty all the same

all these words fall from her mouth
My neck is burned raw with garden sunshine
I can't help but feel like the heat on my skin
Has moved to my cheeks
Like the red of her lips

She's caught sight of it all
Sports a childlike grin
For the first time in weeks
It is in her eyes that it swims

And she asks what I'm looking at
And I smile then, too.

"What am I looking at?
...
Well, it's definitely not you."