She had a face of salt,
her features were fading away
with every water stroke,
and though her tongue was not so sharp
but parts of the brush were snipped
whenever it went past her startled mouth.
His face was bold,
no layers could conceal
the depth of his eyes,
they were so deep,
deeper than their love.
But he stood in rage,
holding the corner of the canvas,
eager to flee the scrutiny of art
to be brushed off in a miraculous paint,
unaware how sincere the artist was
and how intense, has always been,
the color of void.