Salted chocolate.
Late nights alone.
The lamp in the corner
Casts unmoving shadows.
Everything still.
I am still.
In this bed, sitting upright,
Facing the empty easel.
There is a piece of canvas
Plastic-wrapped,
Dead for a year.
Should hold a funeral for its potential.
But I still like to look over at it.
One day maybe I will live boldly.
Lay the canvas down,
Pour out the primaries,
And make love on top of it.
But tonight,
All I've got is a whispered sigh
And unshaven legs.
