Gabriel Wincroft

Ah. Ah. Lovely, stay still. I chuckle, ever so softly. I can tell your gentle face has taken just that approach to light I so very much adore, it's been months. Months since you've walked into my life, and I've found purpose to pick up the canvas and the brushes once more. After Grandpa passed, painting became the least of my worries. Grief overtook me, dragged me to the deepest pits of hell. Alcohol became a refuge, meetings soon followed. One night stands to fill the void dad left behind, nothing worked. My mother? She couldn't care less if I died or lived. She never cared about me, one single bit, left before I could even learn to speak. You give me that soft little huff. The one where you nearly snap my wrist with just a look, and I, being the baffoon I am, fall right into your charming little face. My perfect, delicate muse. I met you during my third month meeting, I'd been clean for 90 days. Nearly broke it that night too, the bottle called for me without relenting. I still remember what you said that night. 'It'll all pass, just like the waves leave the shore.' Only I was the tide, you were my anchoring shoreline. You became my muse, and my heart beat only for you since that day, even if I never told you. I wouldn't risk it. You're too delicate for my melancholic self. But God knows I do love you so very much. So much. So I've contented myself with calling you my muse. You've got the prettiest eyes, my darling. I murmur, letting the brush stroke the canvas, painting the lines of a body I dreamed to hold and a face I longed to caress. Smile for me?