She likes the way I paint pictures
With my words
So she painted one for me
With her brush.
She used mostly black, grey
And a lot of different reds.
It was a painting of a naked girl
Standing on a balcony
Of an old decrepit building.
There was something dark, something sinister
About the whole painting.
Maybe it was the choice of colours
Or the girl's dark, sullen eyes.
I don't know why I didn't ask anything,
Like, why is the girl naked?
It all seemed so weird to me
But now, somehow, it makes sense.

She asked me why I didn't have the feeling
The emotion
The passion
That I have in my poems
In real life.
I wanted to say because love doesn't make sense
And hate is frustrating
And happiness is fickle
And sadness is lonesome.
But I didn't, I just shrugged
And remained silent.

She asked me why I was so quiet,
I was nervous, I admit,
But I didn't tell her so
Instead, I told her I preferred to leave my words
To pen and paper.
She smiled and I did too,
There was nothing more to talk about.
Maybe we can kiss? I asked.
She laughed
Yea. Maybe we can kiss.

Now the painting hangs in my room
And I've taken a liking to art.