Painting a Mirror

I dip the palm of my hand gently into the tray of cool, sticky paint, my hand picking up a few different colors as it presses down on the tray. The pain is such a relieving feeling against my hand that was hot and sweaty from feeling so nervous. I can feel my arms tremble a little and my breath becomes faster, shallow and shaky. I lift my hand and look at the imprint it made in the paint; small and imperfect and most definitely mine. A small breeze makes its way to me through the small screen door in front of me on the patio. It makes the only other noise aside from my frantically beating heart. My mind is racing but I can't think of anything to say. I know I should just turn around and do it but I have no excuse to, none aside from my intense desire to. Maybe if I turn around I'll find some inspiration to...to do what? I feel like the paint is sliding off of my hand, beginning to dry and become useless. It's been so long just standing here, panicking. Do I turn around or would it be a waste of time? I should just run out of that screen door, out into the field of tall grass and just disappear. As I'm standing, preparing to run and yet wanting to stay, whether or not I escape to the vast and unsure world beyond the screen door is decided for me. It's uncomfortably warm and humid but yet the warmth of your hand on my bare shoulder is comforting; gently guiding my body towards you without turning around. My breaths deepen and my heart quickens with every inch that my feet move me farther away from the door. Then, suddenly, your hand disappears and my heart sinks. My face flushes and I want so badly to sprint out of the patio door and not look back but instead I turn, finally, to see where you have gone. As I wheel around, my sticky, colorful hand reaches out and, in my haste, finds itself pressed on your bare chest. The blue and silver of your eyes dulls the brilliance of the blue paint smeared just over your heart in the shape of my slender hand. Air catches in my chest, my body seems frozen in ice and yet my cheeks flush with heat. The gentle touch of your hand on my cheek melts my frozen muscles and the paint on your fingertips cools my flushed cheeks. I feel the cool streaks of blue and silver left on my cheek and reach up to touch your face where you had touched mine. Feeling your skin on min again sends a rush of red to to my head. Both of us are slow but eager to reach and grab for more. I take a breath to speak but your lips reach mine before words can and suddenly the world becomes more vast than the field outside or the sky above it, yet it only consists of your lips, your breath, your hands and our heat. That was the day I learned to love, by seeing me in you.