I was your canvas. You drew me perfectly.
Each curve was defined with such care. You were careful to avoid mistakes.
The stroke of the pencil was gentle to the touch. I felt safe.
The lead broke, so you took a break.
Months passed and you forgot about the painting. Then, one day, you came back to it. You were ready to paint it.
You gathered your colors. Oh how particular you were with those.
You grabbed your brush, started making the slightest strokes on the drawing.
You got excited with it.
You began to use all of the colors, but never followed the drawing you had made before.
As you were coming to the end of your painting, you realized how undefined it was.
The colors began to sink into the paper. “Shit.” your feelings towards this once beautiful drawing disappeared.
It was just… there.
I was just there.
You cared for me, kept me safe, loved me. Now, I am just the drawing you once were proud to call yours.
I was your canvas.