Watercolours and Watery Lies

how can you call yourself a painter
if you never paint?

obsessed with labels,
you paint once, suddenly
you're a painter, and I,
your muse.

when it's nice out, you paint me.
dark brown hair glinting in
dappled sunlight under a
canopy of trees, tall trees,
in the forest we visited once.

but you don't paint my gloved hand
when frost nips at bare branches.

how can you call yourself a painter,
if you never paint?

you paint on intermittent good days,
does that make you a painter?
leaving out the messy, filthy details,
and the picture looks nice.
shallow, dishonest, nice, art.
does it make the masterpiece rare?
more valuable?

how can you call yourself a painter,
if you only paint
on the sunny days where we're laughing
and you tell me the stories of the
songs your sister used to sing to put you to sleep and
my head rests on your shoulder and
lifting it away would disturb how
f*****g wonderful everything is and
you're painting and
you're painting

and that's all the painting.
because then the good runs out,
and you stop painting.

you never paint any more,
and I like when
artists are dependable,
at least consistent.
art, if nothing else,
should be honest.

how can you call yourself a painter,
when you never paint?

- j.f.