The Princess & The Painter

The moon's cheeks flushed pink that night as she shrunk away
whispering our secret to stars who rolled their twinkles like they never cared.  
Even the latch clicked quietly as I crept in, content to wander
but thunder-eyed under the hush of his soft wood curve and coloured world  
the ocean blowing kisses past curtains that playfully threatened to offer me  
to white street light interrogation.  
 
Then he scooped me up from behind, breaking that fairytale hush like I hoped he would  
[for fairytales do so suffocate the better lies of living.]
He laid me, laughing, on his canvas, swept deft fingers skimming hemline
pulled it low enough to brush the hollow of my hip with his nose; and I loved  
the abrasions, how he grazed each piece of summer cover over my skin so it scraped
alerting nerves, trickling anticipations.
 
I swirled impatiently as hot breath raised tiny follicles up the swoop of my ribcage
like airbrush strokes, and he waited - before dripping the warm colours from my chin
down my neck, tracing my navel, over mons, thighs, the streaming piece changing  
from morning skies to storm-fed lightning sighs, wrecks and cataclysm casualties
then back to a sleepy, bloody sunset heavy with humidity -  
he said I should see it but I don't do spoilers, and I'm only on chapter three.