Hands cold to the touch.
Warmed by the staccato beating of her heart.
The mind blooms as love creates the color
As I sit at the easel of life. My mind is a blank canvas. Your touch like a brush stroke from a painters delicate touch. You move the colors around like shifting the way light moves through space. You brush stroke like colorful poetry. Each stroke of brush spilling your dreams onto the canvas. I marvel at the ease in which you force blob into masterpiece. As canvas soaks up the last drop of paint we stare at the finished work of art and realize that as the colors fade on the canvas the memories of that painting will never fade.
A typewriter lay in the corner,Reminding of old thoughts and yonder,It had memories,Of old or golden stories.I knew my dad used those,To type letters or prose,He wrote love letters to my mother,And stories to reporters.It lay in the dustAnd had got rust.After my dad’s death,His