Each day, as the sun awakens, the painter prepares a delicate tea. A white peach blend. So subtle is the taste, yet the calm that follows, so immense. Alone, on an old floor pillow she smiles. A smile of tea, of happiness, of sunlight. It coexists beautifully with the calm of her eyes. Her lids rest gently on their lower counterpart, there on their own accord. Not a single muscle is tensed. Aged silver strands flow from her head and rest on her *******, yet it is only the color that's been tainted. Still as soft as a child's hair, it shines. The teapot, an old friend, sits beside her on a stout wooden table. He appears to be ancient, perhaps Japanese. Sometimes she smiles a teapot smile, glancing over at him, acknowledging his years of service. Almost as old, slight wrinkles have formed in her face, and crows' feet beside her eyes. Not distortion from mistreatment, rather small folds of time and wisdom. Perhaps an hour later, when the sun has warmed her face, strong arms, and legs, and the teapot has tipped out his last drop, she rises. An easel stands in the center of the room bearing a canvas, which reflects sunlight in rays unseen before submitting itself to a life of color, of bottles. That is the destiny of each canvas ever to sit upon this particular easel, for the room is decorated with bottles- ornaments of the ceiling. There are no walls, only windows. Large panes of glass that have withstood years of the sun's entry. From the ceiling and hooks dug into the slices of wood between the window panes, dangle an eclectic collection of bottles. Hung from different heights. Different colors. Different shapes. Translucent pastel blues and greens, light purples, dark navys, rosey pinks and the like. Together they look so strange, so beautiful, hanging from the ceiling as such. An odd concept indeed, but a sight to behold. Even more so is the light that refracts from within them casting colorful stripes and dots on the floor, never ceasing to dance til the sun goes to sleep. As the woman rises, she walks to the blank canvas. Closing her eyes for a moment, she goes within and asks to be shown her composition. Almost like a compass, her body points her to the north star of the day. Green eyes wander upwards and lock the view. Sometimes they choose a single bottle, sometimes a few, sometimes a whole landscape. Suddenly the painter takes on a sharp concentration, noting the curves, the diameter of the lip, the shades of color that make the bottle appear translucent. One day it might be an exact copy. Perhaps the bottle is what it is and is beautiful that way. But sometimes the bottle's essence is not in what is seen, but the images they incite in the painters mind. A rosey pink bottle looks rather delicate and cute, but the essence of some is darker, curvier, more violent. Or a light orange bottle might be begging to be complemented with shadows of blue. Whatever image comes to mind, whatever way the universe has wished her to paint what is before her, she takes her time. Just as she does with her tea. There is no rush. The sun's visit is long. For hours she will stand and paint until the vision is at last complete. Stepping back, she observes what she has done, looking upon it with new eyes, until she understands it and smiles once again. A smile of paint.

there’s something uplifting about looking up at my window.
no matter the time of day, as long as the slats are open,
if you look up and out, you will see the tops of trees and open sky.

in the early evening, it reminds me of you.
the blue is fading to a duskier shade, like that of your eyes,
and the leaves of the trees shine a yellow-brown as the sun hits them;
they sway in the breeze, just as your hair does.
the light is warm and gentle and brushes against the white of the open panels
and glances off the wall to the right, painting my room in aureate hues.
I remember having all the time in the world to watch you during these hours,
having all the time in the world as you slept or fiddled around in my bed.
sometimes we would lay entwined and my fingers would brush over your stubble
as your hands grazed through my hair and up and down my side.
your lips would brush against my skin as the leaves brushed against each other outside.
no noise, no chaos. just our breathing and the dimming light the sun provided.

the early evening is the calm before the night and the madness it brings.
gold and glory and grandness and grace,
a warm haze of gradual darkness descends as the haven melts away like the hours we spent.
the sun lights up the sky in vivid pinks and oranges,
leaving bruised purples and navys in its wake.
you left as it set. your mood reflected the bruises the sun left in its abrupt departure
and I longed to paint you in pinks and oranges and the blazing, brilliant red it became
before it disappeared beneath the horizon, just as you did when the car door shut behind you.