Not a glimpse
of the stars in your eyes
dancing, flickering
alongside the tinkling crystals of your laugh
Not a hint
of the lingering scent of burnt paper
and ash from a lowly stick
doing tangos on your alabaster fingers
Not a sliver
of daydreams of such delicate hands
caressing the traces of ink on my humble nape
scarred by brutal needles of lies
Not a glimpse
Not a hint
Not a sliver
For a painter must not fall for his muse.