It was Sunday…and he wrote on me.
Write on me, in the name of love…write on me with your fingertips.
Everything was blank until you draw on me…with your words, touches, looks, tongue…
My body was soaking up everything…and wanted more.
I wasn’t a blank canvas before I met you…i have scares because I have history…still I felt like I was never kissed before, loved before, touched before…
You are making my heart feel things it has never felt before.
I’m completely positive that I will never get a moment like this.
No one has ever gotten me the way you did.
My canvas…and you are the painter. You painted our love all over me….with brushes of passion.
I’m a tremendous canvas…waiting for you to fill with touches.
My canvas yearning for the touch of paint, the taste of lead, the moisture of ink…waiting for you my artist.
I realize I have already been painted, tainted and erased so hard that scratches are seen…it was destined that your hand make me a better work of art…to make me yours. To claim what is yours.
There is something beautiful in canvas…even if it is not blank. The new beggining that is so simple and breathtakingly pure. It’s the paint that changes its meaning and the hand that creates the story. Every piece begin the same, but in the end they are all uniquely different.
Hey painter…help me create something of worth and beauty that marks our journey.
Let’s hold our brush, let’s choose our palette and begin to fill our canvas…we are the artists of our own destiny.
Athough we can’t go back and make a brand new start…we can start from now and make a brand new ending.
Write on me…paint me with thick strokes of love and care.