Sometimes I look at your video without actually listening to the music you play. Instead I find myself staring at your hands or looking at your body imagining holding you close. I remember what you felt like and I remember what you looked like lying next to me in bed at night. The silhouette of your body as you lay on your side with you back towards me. The landscape of you seemed soft and feminine, almost childlike. It made you look vulnerable and I thought you were beautiful. It made me wish I was a painter, if only so that I could copy that one line of your contour just as it was - one stroke of perfection against an otherwise empty canvas. As much as I wish to I don't have that power over my hand, the mere thought of the movement distorts you. Instead the image stays in my mind, burnt into memory as one of the scars you carved on me.