we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.

three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.

him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.

hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.

him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.

we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.

after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.

sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.

i once met an old
man
who did
sudoku
with ink and
pen

black or blue
it didn't
much matter
one way
or another

so long as
it was never
pencil
he despised
pencil on
principle

on those rare
occasions
when he'd make a
mistake

he refused
to cross out the incorrect
integer

i asked him
why
one sunny
summer day
and he told me

that we can't cross out
our choices
or erase
our mishaps
we can only
turn the page

and on he went
to his next
puzzle

if you're looking for me
im probably sinking below the surface,
im drowning.

ive been so caught up in the things i wish to be,
you've been helping me down since the first time i told you i was hurt.
ive been telling myself i need something to extract you from me,
ive been stuck to you, an eternal bond i just cant break.

most of the time,
im sinking below the surface,
but that doesnt stop anyone from pushing me further.
im standing on the edge of these tracks,
and im never coming back.

you watched me burn, slowly, without movement.
you watched my ashes blow into the ocean,
and they became the freedom i always longed for.

why did you wait so long to try and **** me,
why couldnt you see i was already dead?
chain me down,
help me sink once more.

i, jus now, walked to the store to get some water
and - it's weird but - the sun
  hit
me: and, somehow, i felt
detach e  d no more;
one lit plane, arrayed
beneath my sandals

and walked my feet
along the woven pavement, which had
either come alive at that moment or
had always been so and i just never noticed it before.

but then, i felt

some weird s i d e inside of me grind
its bony armor, elide the light, and
glyph into existence, dark. it spoke; it wrote

me down. it captured me with an adroit hand. it
fed me lines. lines. lines. lines brighter than star proximal.

my insides stood divided.

i got home
and drank
the water: straight from
the jug.