The Artist

Looking at some older photos of him and once again becoming lost in his beauty. He destroys my soul while calling it love and I love every minute of it. His beauty is different. His is a beauty that I initially believed to be a mirage. When I think of him I tell myself that he proved me wrong by showing me how gentle he can be, how he just as much loves to watch the autumn leaves dancing in the golden sunset as I do. He demonstrates this by listening to the whispered conversations of the ocean’s waves, holding my hand while we dig our toes in the sand, the breeze ruffling that beautiful head of hair of his. He smells of cotton and detergent and natural things, not spice and whatever else is put in those sprays for men to attract a partner, a lover, a one-night stand. No, he smells pure. A smell that makes me feel at home. He makes an enormous effort to remember my favorite thing to do on those days when I cannot go on and he does this with me without judgment. He hums his favorite songs to me in a way that makes them sound like lullabies, even when they are the heavier bit that he listens to. He paints me a picture, his easel set up by the French doors that I don’t have, facing the sunlight, or the moonlight (which I much rather prefer), a glass of something strong and amber in one hand, a paintbrush between his teeth, a cup to rinse in his other paint-streaked hand. He paints me the worlds I dream of, the worlds I long to be a part of. He brings them to life for me through his colors, colors that only he can breathe life into the way he does. Beyond that, I’m not sure what he’s like, only that his heart is kind, he would rather die than hurt my heart and his colors are what light the way for me in my darkest of moments. I could be wrong about him. I usually am wrong about people. But this is how I’ll think of him, in those passing moments when I think of him.

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