My painter girl

She was always a part of my recurring dreams. She was a fantasy. She was who I searched for. Longed for.

She wore a straw hat, to protect her from the sun whenever she painted outdoors, and a pair of rugged jeans. She held a canvas in her painted hands… and walked without a worry or care.

I saw her painting my dreams. She removed my arrows from the Tree of Sorrow.

She saw my poetry like I saw her painting. We never talked. We never had a debate. Not a single argument.

Now, we talk with our eyes; with our touch.

I believe we breathe in rhythm too.

Yesternight, on the beach, the moon whispered to the tide, the tide in turn to the breeze, and the breeze whispered those sweet nothings to us. As we, lying on the sands below, watched the stars above.

She showed me God. Then, she worships me.