Beginning to trust, and care for someone, is like carefully setting up your easel, then cutting some canvas to fit. You start to cautiously choose your paint colours, and a paintbrush, rolling it wistfully every so often between your fingers, whilst you imagine.
Little specks of colour begin to be left across the canvas, and then they thicken into lines, only for large arcs to dance assuredly across the page. Vibrant, wonderful streaks fall upon the thick paper, sinking comfortably into it.
Then, you’re pushed back, away. You line up your tubes of paint, those you so fondly coaxed colour out of. You hide your paintbrush somewhere for another time, and you slot away your easel. You take the canvas, pierced or preserved, with you, because you decide not to leave them anything to remember you by, only the ache of not seeing you paint, and what you paint, again.