#Day 971: Canvas

I have something I must tell you for its eating at me. It’s a rehearsed dream I’ve been seeing, a wish I’ve lost eyelashes on, a relentless knocking on my frontal lobe, an aggravating itch I have that only you could make go away.
But first you must know what the inside of me looks like.
Because I know what yours is. I know the colour, the texture, the softness of your mind. I know what the inside of your cheek feels like, what your veins knot into. I know how the back of your eyes and the underside of your restricted, most private thoughts is like.
I love art. That is a given. That is how we met. That is what drew me to you. Art is what made my body move towards you, move to you, move into you, move with you.
I know your colours like I know my deepest, darkest secret. I envision you in shades only my slumbering, intoxicated mind can create. My fingers trace your laugh lines endlessly, over and over again, smoothening them and feeling every joke you’ve ever heard burn into my skin. I recite the lines you read to me often when I’m perturbed and the memory of your voice rings in my ears until my sanity returns.
Art isn’t simply paint on a canvas. It’s your words, it’s your hair in the morning, the way you knot your tie, it’s your slow humming and your feet tapping to the elevator music. Art is your fingers drumming on the table, your knuckles on the steering wheel, and the way your eyes look from behind a book, the way your lips twitch when I say something puerile. Art is the curve of your neck, the smattering of a light stubble at five o’clock, the stretch of your body as it lays in bed.
I’ve loved art for as long as I can remember. The delicate touch of a petal, the icing on a cake. The unending ideas on a blank canvas, the span of human skin.
Art breathes and sings in me and I thought that would be it, that I would love and cherish Monet and Jackson and Bukowski, until a painting came to life and took my hand. Until a sunset touched me and woke my body. Until a song spoke to me about my fears and a poem read itself out on the roof.
Now, I believe, is time to tell you what I’ve been teasing you about, what this inconsistent rambling has been building up to.

I want to paint galaxies, storms and worlds on you but I’m not great with the manifestation of colours. I love art but I cannot create a masterpiece nearly as alive and enrapturing as you, but I’ll do what I can. I’ll write you a deliberately imprecise ballad and show you stars and tornados in my words, even if it’s nowhere close to what you insinuate in me.


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