A Different Canvas (Poem)

Yellow light soaked the large room,
loft-like, spacious, comfortable,
wooden floor polished with time and bare feet.
Above, a roof etched in lines of steel and iron
laced its way through heavy timber beams,
ceaselessly watching, ceaselessly still.

An enormous divan dominated a corner,
while easels, paints, brushes, varnish, rags and dried splatter
littered the room like forgotten ideas.

The man stood there half-naked,
loose cotton pants the color of tired gray wrapped around him as if in afterthought.
He held a calligraphy brush in one hand, his left,
and a palette in the other,
half-tilted towards the floor, allowing the paints to begin their downward fall,
mixing themselves in a vivid riot.
His head tilted down and to the side,
watching carefully as she slid out of her clothes,
and rolled to one side with her top leg casting a shadow where shadows shouldn't be.
Hair cascaded down either side of her face,
hair the color of a sudden midnight,
having lost its color in the shadow of a growing dark.
Hey eyes, mischievous and smirking,
led him to approach the bed, and on knees, join her at her side.
His look traveled along her body, entirely smooth,
resting on the smeared paint covering her stomach and legs.

"Paint," she commanded,
even as his hands had already begun washing the previous drawing clear,
soon unfocused, then blurred and monochrome.
His face ignored her, focused entirely on the new painting,
new paint slick over smooth skin,
while her eyes gradually softened and lost their smug shade.
Then, gaining lust and longing,
reaching out for his face,
ever closer until he tumbled from the bed,
alone,
awake,
hands smeared in dark indigo,
listening to the fan's song far overhead.