The taste of the yellow paint sits on my tongue. Sizzling in all its glory the paint, so silent, so still, is washed away. Washed away like side walk art on a stormy November night. What we had was lost somewhere between that night and the day we made art together. We plastered our love on a canvas with paint, red paint. The hearts we drew were full, full of questions, full
of hope, and full of love, for our once lost souls had been found. Found by each other so lonely and so sad we painted and made art. We expressed how we felt on paper so thin. I sit in my room on this cold evening writing of our love story and what it used to be. Deep down I wish we were still we.
September 8, 2018