She was as beautiful as a canvas stretched over a wooden frame. Spreading enough but not tearing. Reaching the extreme but not cracking. Messing up with her pigments, I nudge and fierce my bare hands over her plains and curves. Her tired weaves come alive and smear themselves with the colour of my skin. Splashing a colour familiar to her, I paint her with my unfamiliar touch. Layer after layer, colour by colour, I cloth her skin with my touch, the touch she would carry on her skin for centuries. Drying up, holding her together. 
I unveil her inner canvas vault with strokes of my brush; more space to paint. Her nails dig and aperture out the colours my soul is made up of. The canvas moans, making the composer’s soul scream. Her cells… her weaves fall apart, weaving themselves again with the thread of colours. 
She reaches the verge, next to what is a heavy fall. With stroke of the brush she falls heavy. Her skin bolts and she exhausts herself, making all the colours wet. And before she could get back to senses… the painter fills herself with every shade left in his soul. He empties every drop left in him, just to make her alive.
That’s how an artist puts fire to a canvas.
That’s how an artist makes painting with his soul.
And that’s how an artist signs his name on the painting.