I mold truth onto you in the late hours of the night, with the chisel and paintbrush of Picasso; I am sure he would not mind, my dear, for I use his tools for only the finest works of art. I have painted the inches of your skin that are hidden under the folds of midnight sheets, the colors unraveling the creases and spilling into the valleys. I have tattooed typewritten words into the space shadowed by your lashes, Plath and Dickens and Kipling smiling as they realize the beauty of the parchment beneath your eyelids on which their words are now written.