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Portrait of an Artist

The paint was thick and still damp. I didn't need to touch it to know this. All over the concrete floor were splashes of paint and dirty white clothes where wet canvases leaned against the walls of the open space. In the corner sheets were rumpled in a bed he lay sleeping on, tangled. Dark hair rumpled against his pale face, arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to block out the light. I walked back carefully not to make noise and lay down next to him, covering myself with the corner of the dark sheet he'd left available. 

I reached out to move the tousled hair from his face only to feel the the grip of his hand as he pulled me closer. I was somewhere in a moment as I felt long fingers and firm calloused hands against naked skin.To love an artist is to be in a constant state of unknowing. unbeing, but still somewhere. Hands held firm against you, even when they themselves, the fingers, the lines along the palm aren't sure why they're there. Even when skin tingles and the moment makes you want to succumb to the way hands grip, you wait, pause, and stop from falling over an edge because you've been there before.  

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