White laundered curtains for a face

Conceal a name I can’t erase.

Smoke curling slow, I let it spin,

I let it touch my weightless skin.

Dawn hums in shades of perfect light,

My creativity takes flight.

I watch it soar while I stay still,

A phantom at her windowsill.

No bright spotlight, no praises spoken,

Just linen sheets and windows open.

I build my worlds in quiet rooms,

Where flowers wilt, ideas bloom.

Look close, don’t blink, or else I’ll fade,

A pulse beneath what I have made.

I dwell between the strokes of paint,

My lines are loud, my voice is faint.

I don’t need gold, I don’t need fame,

My art can glow like stars aflame.

I’ll let the canvas take the praise,

I’ll stay behind—half light, half haze.

If heaven calls, I’ll write it down,

But never wear the shiny crown.

I’m just a vessel fueled by coffee,  

The ghost who writes her mortal story.

There’s grace in staying “almost” seen,

In letting beauty touch between.

A crescent moon, which paints at night —

I paint, then wane, and that feels right.

On the subject of sacrificing visibility for the sake of letting art take the spotlight.