She was never good with anything, she thought,
And she believed that she would never be fixed.
She had her moments of depression,
Her fair share of grief and hopelessness,
But when all would seem so lost and useless,
He would come with the most genuine smile she’s ever seen,
And with a sketchbook in hand, he will ask her
To paint him a picture.

“Color it with roses,” he said.

She merely gave a light laugh and a warming smile,
Stating that “you can’t paint a picture with flowers.”
He pretended to be giving it a deep amount of thought,
And such a serious look on his face made her laugh again.
She took his hands into hers, and swinging them back and forth,
She looked up into his face and said, “Color me with roses.”

He only stared blankly for a moment, thinking.
“Meet me back here, tomorrow,” he said.

The sky, which had been painted a marvelous gold, red, and pink,
Turned to swirls of blue, indigo, purple,
With tiny, faint, but distinct diamonds shining and splattered across magnificently.
Then the sun rose, and she was back there again,
To see a boy sitting, with a thin bouquet of roses red and white.

He was still picking, one by one, the petals of one of the flowers,
And seemed to be in a trance when she sat down next to him.
With a bright look on his face, and such an ingenuous smile,
He jumped up and tossed above her all the petals he had plucked,
White confetti falling so gracefully, each perfect, silk petal hailing her;
Some landing and remaining on the top of her head,
Some brushing only her soft skin, some resting on her lap,
None of them knowing the surprised look on her face.

He will take a rose, and brush her hair behind her ear--
Leaving behind the red petals, red blush, looking into her eyes,
He will whisper so only she can hear, "What a masterpiece you are."

And he will look into her eyes so honestly,
And staring back into his, she will say, so softly,
“Let’s talk about love.”

And he will smile,
And such a peaceful and rested smile,
Because he knows, every now and then,
Inspiration will come,

grab her by the shoulders,

and kiss her on the lips;
Passion

will grace her and crown her with beauty;
Vivid fires

and vivid colors

spazzing wildly;

And he will just watch her,
Because he knows that times like these,
When Inspiration comes, cloaked in its rich majesty,

She will truly shine

. . . . And how he loved to watch her shine.

---

A/N: Wrote this after reading “She” (by I’m Still Here) for like, the millionth time. Ü