The clock, the armchair, canvas, colors, and ashtray,

The lighter she gave me and a packet of cigarettes.

I draw a puff as I stare, at the one I revere,

The girl who agreed to be my muse, this afternoon.

Hail heavens, she's so fair.

The colors I mix up are chiffon, pink,

Brown and porcelain. She shuffles in my armchair,

The only time one would without my consent.

Her hair rains over the cushions, her head leans back,

And her legs are hanging over the obtuse armrests.

She lays across the compass of my eyes, a swan

With blissful wings, raring to flip the only bedsheet

That covers her in this still. Her blazing eyes are,

Distracting, so is the smile that breaks on her cheeks.

The light on her head is dancing

As I sketch the lips, mine so want to meet.

Something's in the air, maybe it's her perfume or

maybe her treasured vase. Her movements are delicate,

A savoring crime, I try and advise her against.

She could have danced if she wanted to,

If she was here for more than just, this painting.

She could have rolled around errantly all day,

For I'd be there to catch her when she fainted.

I hope she's here to stay. All day.

Longer than the days.