WATERCOLOUR

I stood, lost

in that artist’s studio

poised, bare, vulnerable –

but you never once

touched your brush

to the canvas.

I was still,

amidst littered sketches

of soulful eyes and definite lines,

and empty frames,

as you struggled

with torturous thoughts

on whether reflection

or reproduction of reality.

The creation never came –

I was neither mirror nor muse.