If I was his art

He was my artist

If I was his muse

He was my poet

And we compiled many beautiful portraits

Of us

In each other's solace

The difference in age, almost of thirty years

Became irrelevant

When he painted me in his shades

Sometimes by the petrichor window

When the flowers soaked the earth

Sometimes by the lamp shade

When sat on the floor

Playing with my tresses

While drinking nectar

Between my legs

It wasn't love

Nor lust

Just two artistic souls

At play.

©LR