His gaze lingers on paints and brushes and incomplete canvas, and he doesn't ask if he can watch me any more. Neither of us likes to hear me lie.
When the farewells are said and the door clicks shut, I breathe.
Everything that might be exists in the space between inspiration and demand, a space best found alone. Nothing matters here but potential and becoming.
When I breathe, I begin. Thoughts and feelings move my fingers, transferring colours to canvas. I shape new visions. It's my heart and it's my soul, and sometimes he helps me because he lives in both, but potential only becomes art when I'm alone.