It is days like this that make me wish i were the artist,
the one that formed you so perfectly.
the one responsible for every flawless curve and hair,
smile and beauty mark.
but it is not i who painted you.
the one above mastered his creation,
sending him to me on the wings of a dove to heal.
sometimes i wish it were i who sent you down.
down from my perfect surroundings,
down to another.
someone else in need.
in need the way i was months ago.
sometimes i feel your work with me is finished. finalized. complete.
you have crafted me, opening my eyes to new possibilities,
a more innocent way to view,
and yet, you are still here.
never anxious to end what you have started.
and it is at that moment that i realize that it is not i who is the artist,
but rather, you.
you spend time on me daily with your patient hand,
perfecting my imperfections and molding me anew.
you have painted my heart,
filling each spot with your love,
replacing my hurt and replenishing my spirit.
it is moments like these that allow me to realize that
the one above sent the artist to me to paint me a new life.