Paints the night.

He will never stroke his brush through my hair
or paint red lips of mine
Exhausted by the memories, he drowns himself in wine

The label always ripped off, so he can see it clear
The way it tastes just like me, berries mixed with tears

I used to pose within the light, a gleam of silk upon my browl 

Nothing more than candlelight, burnt out wax , before him now

He paints alone in darkness, I guess he paints the night

He always loved the moon and stars
They bought him
sheer delight.