Watching an artist is like no other experience. 

It’s like watching the ocean uncover a seashell or a piece of polished glass. Like standing in the doorway of a hospital room and daring not speak as a new mother cradles her newborn child, the feeling of intruding yet being unable to leave the atmosphere of that room with all its new life and quiet joy.

Suddenly it’s hard to care about the spray paint fumes or the acrylics dripping onto the bed sheets. Her hands, flying of their own accord, arms so covered in paint and ink that she may well be the canvas indeed.

The moment lasts long after the fumes die, after the drive to her home that killed my car’s speakers, long after her hand let go of mine, after the kiss.

Because I kissed her. And for the first time in a long time, I felt.