"Gravity..."
he said, painting the last of the blues on his burnt canvas.
"... Isn't a force of attraction."

[ scattered syllables falling off flaring tongues, unravelling that sweet disclosure of hazy three am trysts ]

his rolled up sleeves were hinted with phantom paint splatters and tear stains.

[ flying shards of porcelain from his hand-painted vases, shattering the threadbare remains of a fluctuating tomorrow ]

his fingers that now adorn the brush had, in a forgotten era, learnt to hold a hand right.

[ missing pieces from different jigsaws, lined with magnetic strips of mathematical abstracts, broken lights sighing wistfully to be someone's flickering hope ]

"...It's a disaster waiting to happen."