one morning
he found her hiding
between the stacks of
blank canvases
that his indecisive brushes
hadn’t been sure
how exactly to fill,
and she sat up with
the moon,
hiding him in the pages
of her books, to
the snapping song
of her tired
typewriter

she paints for him,
he writes for her,
but there isn’t enough
room on the wall
to hang them
side by side

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