you spent every night of your life
painting each petal of the night sky white
just so in the morning
all your work could disappear.
i'd once asked you why you do it
[putting in so much work just for it
to disappear into burning sunsets]
and how it doesn't become tiresome,
a chore that is neverending.
the only answer you gave
was a knowing smile
[on your moon dimpled cheeks]
and two whispered words of so called
earthly pleasure.
it was a wonder to me
how something so little
could bring you so much.
and it made me think,
of how much love
someone was qualified to dispense
before each brushstroke
becomes an act of duty
[rather than one of ceaseless warmth].
and it made me think,
of how long until the star eyed girl
that i watched pour her every soul
into something without reward,
would become just bits of stardust
[just like the ones she painted
every single night]