The phrase “I love you so much it hurts” did not make much sense to me until

Every door, floor, remote, couch, hand, and head of hair 

in your reach was speckled with acrylic

Canvases proving too constricting for the creative energy in you

Not your first, second or third painting

A commission under your belt

Green but an artist by all definitions

Nearly finished 

you broke concentration

Tilted your head to the side 

Held your work straight out and asked 

“what color is this?” 

Tell me did Beethoven’s blind faith 

make his lovers’ bellies ache 

where tenderness bloomed