Poetic Speech

By the time the shadows shift from gentle to sharp, and the sun has crept halfway across the sky, my hands are sore. My fingers are stained with pinks and crimsons, my arms speckled with flecks of tea rose and dried varnish, and there's a satisfying ache blooming at the base of my spine. The kind of ache that tells you something real has been made today.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and glance at my phone. There's a notification from Theo.

| Are you still there? My class is done. I can pick you up if you want.