Echoes

He asks, "Were you painting all day again today?" ...Yes, I was. Don't you see the wet indigo still on my fingertips? Touch it gently with your own.

Cold rain taps against the window. Beyond the wet lace, the cobblestones of Prague gleam. When your palm touches my cheek, what kind of picture do you think this fingertip's warmth is painting? 🎨

"Still painting, were you?"... My fingers explore the buttons of your shirt. A faint scent of oil paint lingers on your dry lips. The Prague night is still long. 🎨 🎨