The Sun Will Rise

May 1, 2018
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His hands were like a paintbrush,
And the canvas was my body.
As his fingers traced my skin, he left behind shades of yellow, orange, and red.
He told a story through his painting, as all artists do.
This story was our future.
It was a sunrise, and we both knew that by then he would be gone,
Leaving his masterpiece on the easel.
Maybe another would find it there,
After all a painting does draw more attention after he who painted it is gone.

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