He's impatient.
Smearing the paint with fingers.
I stare on, keeping my posture.

My admirer grunts and narrows his brow.
So involved with the canvas.
Does he even know I am here?

My arms are wrapped around sun flowers.
I am slumped in the chair.
Ankles crossed and toes pointed.

Rosy lips parted and blue eyes alert.
He continues his mad movements,
He's like a child with it's finger paints.

My bones ache,
My eyes grow tired.
He's quiet now.

I walk over to peek,
I gasp and grab his shoulder.

A blank canvas.