every afternoon

I step into a darkened room, concealed

His strokes stop midway through the colored tip

I fumble to tie strings loose, layers peeled

We breathe, I wait; he feels to get much grip

He guides my limbs knowing, devoid of shame

A routine one could never get used to

Brushes burn at every inch of my frame

His steps retreat to base, craves come to view

I follow him, cheeks flush I steer his brush

On canvas freed it seeks splashes of white

I guide his hands knowing, contact to rush

To bring this afternoon into the night

I step out of a darkened room, denuded

Of inner walls that once were excluded.