the day I let you paint me, it was the end of may. the air felt fresh and the birds flew in familiar patterns in the sky. you hadn’t painted in weeks and your hands were bruised from all the writing you’d been doing instead but you were ready, to start again. a blank canvas. which is why you chose me I suppose. I was lost and you needed inspiration. the perfect melancholic picture was there lying on your ramshackle sofa; eyes closed, feet carefully balanced on the edge and cradling a hot cup of coffee. and so you began and I led still, dreaming of the birds that circled beautifully outside the window and imagined I was the one bird that flew free, over the horizon, dipping down out of sight forever.