She tugged at the sleeves of her shirt and kept her eyes down at her canvas with brushes tucked in the pocket of her stone-washed jeans and bottles of paint scattered on the table.

He watched her closely as she sketched a sky similar to the one they were sheltered by right now and admired how skillfully she would dot the blankness of the white canvas with her colourful imagination and fill the void of nothingness with hues as bright and as brilliant as her soul.

"Hey, would you like to paint?" She offered, pushing the palette towards his hand.

He looked into the moonstone ocean of her eyes that was lined with a golden sky; there was a treasure chest of pearly love and unworldly verses cased inside them, you just had to look closely. Her eyes shone with excitement as she tucked the brushes between his fingers.

"I am not really an artist," he mumbled, nervously.

"Do we really have to be an artist to create a masterpiece?" She asked, nudging him.

He began with streaks of dark blue; the swirls represented the waves of emotions he felt whenever he touched the depth of her words and the hue reminded him of her soul. He was painting an ocean which had tainted feelings swimming inside that were too precious to be plucked from life.

She painted the horizon; lined with a few houses shining against the setting sun that was slowly slipping behind the azure sea.

Both of them used a lot of blue; it was like there wasn't another colour that could say more about their souls.

He took a few steps back to look at his painting; he believed it was his best work yet. She was pleased to see that he was happy with what he created; it was important for all of us for quit holding the brush so tightly and let the colourful splashes paint a world of rainbow smiles for you.

"I am glad I could paint something even though I am not that good at art," he chuckled.

"It is about making something beautiful no matter how many colours you use; it should make you smile. It wasn't about making a portrait to be sold for a million dollars; the brushes and palettes of gentle hues to coat a white paper that is a symbol of our static lives. Once in a while, we all need tints that blend with the boredom and create a bubblegum pop of cherry reds and watery blues," she said and wiped her paint-covered hands on a tissue.

"You don't always need a muse, right?" He spoke with his voice just above a whisper.

"It isn't always a face with shimmering eyes or strawberry lips that could inspire you to add beauty to a canvas; the skies with flocks of birds who have their wings spread out to conquer the cloudy heaven and the flickering streetlight beside the cherry blossom tree has some tales to tell that are worth being illustrated with hues of love. A muse isn't always a heartbeat and a face," she explained.

"Wow; I never really thought about that," he said, staring into distance.

"A canvas lives a million beautiful lives; it is a home to the artful lungs of an artist who breaths oil mixtures and loves the scent of paint. It is an endless sky for those who have their fingers crafted into paintbrushes and hearts split into palettes; our lives have never been more colourful," she added a finishing touch to her painting and smiled at him.

"My mind is sculpting brilliant sceneries of rainbow-tinted magic after hearing those words," he chuckled.

"That's how art is created- first it melts into thoughts and then, it is moulded into masterpieces."

"I feel so inspired," he took a deep breath and began creating his own masterpiece whilst delicately holding the tip of the brush.