l'histoire.

there was her back,
your canvas of soft, soft white,

she painted her own shadows,
and she spilt her own dreams (all over the place),

"use your fingers," she asked, when you were drawing new york, and paris, and that place in italy by the sea.
"make it messy," she whispered, when you were sketching the sadness in her eyes.

and you wondered, where she'd come from, where she was going, and who would love her.