You're a painter. You should understand, shouldn't you?

How the world seemed to stop at certain points; iron cogwheels paused their endless cycles just so that I could drink in the rain on your skin, so that you could touch my eyelids and lips oh so gently. Everything existed as though painted in a dream. The colours had no name. Photographic brushstrokes captured a single tear or the apex of rose-petals blooming in your cheeks. Or maybe the slow, cheshire-cat smile that you only let me see once in a sapphire moon. I could live on that smile.

Now things are different. Not worse. Different. The painting isn't surreal; it's a still-life. You bending over with a slash across your cheek that I didn't mean to give you. The dimple of teeth left in your neck. Or maybe a paint-fight, and me with violet and grapefruit paint splattered in sunbursts across a once-clean shirt. It's not idealistic dream-scapes anymore. It simply is. And that's how it should be.

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