The painter
Jul 21, 2017 · 1 min read
Your wrinkled linen shirt is on the green sofa.
I look at you, you have a brush in your hand and you can’t take your eyes off that cobalt blue canvas. You are wearing the red shoresh today.

You tell me that you always like to have some paint in your hands.
You like when I take off your glasses and I kiss your eyes.
I look at you looking at me, the brush is in your hand.
I wonder how you see me, the way you are painting me.
You tell me not to move but my eyes are flying like hummingbirds from the plants on the gray floor to some of your portraits hanging on the walls. Suddenly I feel the color on your hand.
The cobalt blue canvas is looking at us and all that it sees is a splash of pale pink in a studio of south Tel Aviv.
