I love watching you paint.
Your furrowed brow, constant frown never changing.
It’s like staring at a work of art. It’s all so beautiful.
The way your long, slender fingers gently move the cigarette from its resting place in the ash tray to your mouth. Your lips circling about its end, making that perfect little “o”.
You put your cigarette down and immediately begin what can only be described as what looks like furious scribbling.
Your mind, so beautiful, has created something frightening. So frightening that the mind cannot keep it inside for very long without the possibility of destruction or implosion. In order to protect or shield itself, it represses and begins to forget. This entire process moves rather quickly. Therefore, you must be quick. Your thoughts must be scribbled down as quickly as they occur.
Your lovely fingers, and how I love them, pick up speed and momentum. Hell nor high water could stop you now.
I know this routine well. I don’t speak, I hardly even breathe. One false move, one unnecessary sound…could through a wrench in the entire system of things. You never skip a beat. How long have I been sitting here? It feels like ages. The brush moves quicker now; colours (almost like stories) are flying. Flying everywhere, all over the place. Hardly have time to catch a single one. My eyes are darting back and forth, trying to catch hold of something. It doesn’t work. Suddenly…
all is quiet.
No stories. No colour.
You put the brush down and pick up your cigarette-trading one vice for another. Your hands are shaking and your fingers are numb.
You move up from your chair to stare at your own piece. You stand confused and almost exhausted. I too move up from the couch, confused and exhausted, where I’ve been for what’s felt like hours. I stare at you and I speak, you hardly notice. When do you ever?
You run your hand through your hair as you take a long drag of your cigarette. In this moment, you haven’t the slightest idea how in love with you I am. How I admire and respect you. How I am inspired by you. But you never will, nor do you care to know.
Blinded by the fabricated stories that exist behind the ever-so guarded walls of your beautiful mind, you miss interesting stories that exist within reality.
The joys of falling in love.
The sorrows of an aching soul.
The promise of friendship.
You miss me.
Only ever do you acknowledge me when I prove valuable to you as a subservient-an answer and caterer to your every whim and crazy antic.
You are a beautiful mind missing a beautiful soul.