We sit there,
our hands are ribbons intertwined.
I stare at the cute lace bow in your hair.
You ask me, "What's your favourite...?"
Book, flower, artist, song.
I ask, "What's yours?"
I guess to you I seem like less than a woman—
a canvas full of brushstrokes
left half-sung
amid dull tones of muted leaves.
But if I'm the canvas,
then you're the artist and muse.
You paint delicate bows and ribbons
of soft pink hues.
You ask me, "What is your favourite...?"
You, you, you, you.
I answer, "I'm not sure..."













