You still there? The canvas almost gave up on the man who really wanted to paint. He wanted to paint. He wanted to work just the way he had about a decade earlier, passionately, obsessively, lovingly. He used to touch the canvas with such caring and loving attention. He used to pour his heart right onto the stretched fabric. They would spend nights together. The paint moist and glowing and soft, his eyes focused, not the brush all of him was her tool. There were fingers, there were splashes of pure saturated liquid, thrown at layers and layers of soft, lush color.
No more, not for a while now. He missed it so much, his longing was unbearable. She missed him too, her whole existence depended on those moments spent together, alone, one on one, privately, softly, sweetly.
She deserved to be the artwork he did not allow her to be, through his cruel absence. He wanted to be in the place only the two of them were able to create... Hopefully there would be layers of wet paint again, soon...