The artist sits with one leg crossing over the other.
she doesn't look at him, draped over the sofa, eyes softly closed.
she wishes his lips were as soft as they appeared when he spoke to her.

The historian studies until it's too late to think straight.
The artist will be sleeping and dreaming in
technicolor.
He hurts her from the inside, moving but somehow keeping his body motionless.
making her wish, his whispers were as soft as his lips looked
in the sunlight.
but he only holds history, and she would hurl his head at a canvas
if it would make the memories mute.