Blue Nude

Today I picked up my pen 
and wondered about all possible things
That deserve to be written down-
Like a haiku
on chamomile tea I love,
and a tribute 
to my favourite Beatles song.
However all this sounds mundane.
I feel flushed and warm.
I am so stupidly happy.
So instead of writing about
crisis in Catalonia
or how Gustave Eiffel sketched the mammoth beauty of Paris' skyline.
I write about you.
I do this every-time.
However, this is different.
Serotonin rushes in my pen.
I choose to scribble about that lazy Friday.
When 3'o clock in afternoon 
I sat cozily on your lap.
With your hands meandering on my back
And we kissing slowly at once.
Your hands were as articulate with me
as Picasso's with his brushes.
You kissed my lips
with your watercolour lips.
and now I am a canvas splattered
with scarlet red colour.
Slowly, the colour moist the canvas leaving
an indelible impression.

This is Expressionism.
And you? Pablo Picasso
I am your Blue Nude
Slowly the dusk approaches
And as the sky transits from a lighter shade 
Of blue to dark one
So the canvas is painted
With passion and thoughtfulness
Suddenly you stop.
The palette is empty.
You get up.
The era of Expressionism is over.
Picasso is dead.
The canvas is dry.
In the process of creating,
you created your own self.
You get up.
and you leave the brushes.
Maybe to move on to next project?
Or to be immersed in it forever.
The canvas is unaware of it
Without your touch, canvas
Is incognizant of your intentions
Whatever they maybe,
This canvas and painting and the painter is my writing prompt.