Artist

If she were a color,

She would be white.

As pure white as freshly fallen snow,

Untouched and unstained.

She is reminiscent of a blank canvas painting.

Waiting for her story to be adorned with color,

The gaps to be filled in, the dots to be joined.

But she is not the artist.

The artist is abstract,

The lines he scrawls not straight

And the paint inconsistent.

She waits,

Helpless to her own cowardice,

For her own masterpiece to be fashioned

By someone else's hand.