Like a painting by Cezanne,
the night unfolded its polychromatic hues,
intense brush strokes
bathing with light
a once dull canvas.
Remembering how your legs, arms, mouth
merged into mine with no beginning or end.
I could not tell where you ended
and I began. I knew if you cut yourself
I would bleed;
Like an impressionist painting we made
art; the night sang with it!
Lying alone in the dark,
I touch the still wet paint
with a smile.
©Willow Rose 2011