ViggOrli, 124 words
The smell of paint wafts in through the open door, reminding you of times long passed, of ice blue eyes and sunkissed hair and a gentle voice whispering words -- so soft, so loving -- against your ear; of artist's hands moving across canvass, leaving behind a trail of colors and textures and emotions in a prolific chiaroscuro of what is.
Those days are gone.
The smell of paint wafts in through the open door, into the coldness of your living room where you find yourself curled up on the sofa, listening to the sound of raindrops pattering against a thin-tiled roof, reminding you of midsummer nights and the same hands moving -- caressing, gentle, intimate -- across your bare skin...
A living testament... of what once was.
Those days are gone.
The smell of paint wafts in through the open door, into the coldness of your living room where you find yourself curled up on the sofa, listening to the sound of raindrops pattering against a thin-tiled roof, reminding you of midsummer nights and the same hands moving -- caressing, gentle, intimate -- across your bare skin...
A living testament... of what once was.