ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
They met through scent, her vanilla and blood swirling with his aerosol and crisp midnight. Street artistry never got one far in Colorado, but somehow, she knew his name. She asked him to paint her.
Her skin was the canvas, a mountain craggy with scarred memories. He brushed stony hues over bruised hills, dabbed rainbows over handprints, large as a father’s handshake.
“Don’t paint my eyes,” she murmured suddenly, brush meeting her cheek.
“Why not?”
“I heard they’re windows to the soul,” she whispered, blank eyes burning like memoirs in a fireplace. “Some things just aren’t meant to be seen.”
Her skin was the canvas, a mountain craggy with scarred memories. He brushed stony hues over bruised hills, dabbed rainbows over handprints, large as a father’s handshake.
“Don’t paint my eyes,” she murmured suddenly, brush meeting her cheek.
“Why not?”
“I heard they’re windows to the soul,” she whispered, blank eyes burning like memoirs in a fireplace. “Some things just aren’t meant to be seen.”
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In