The willow tree is wilting, bleach white bones under the red leaves of autumn. It is august that I find myself staring up at them falling, you never change your tone, but you have changed your painting. A photograph is pinned to your canvas, that photogenic picture of when we visited New York together – sea-spray rusting the camera. She loves it because I’m smiling, I love it because she is in it.
Her paint has dried out, a sip of water wets her lips before she goes back to the grass and leaves that dominate the painting. I can feel the red, smell the blue, I know what she has painted even before I look at it.


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