The Painter

 "I’m sorry I’m late, I just needed to add a few final touches!"

 A painting studio with a bed shoved in the corner, only there because of necessity. Walls covered in holes from countless nails, because no, it needs to be higher/straighter/lower/better. Canvases stacked on canvases. Canvases painted with nature. Canvases ripped to shreds. A stack of twelves, of the same tree, the same angle, done on the first of every month for a year. January isn’t very good. You can pick out each individual branch and clump of snow in December.

 Sketchbooks, splattered with paint. Notebooks not meant for watercolor- not that that matters. Every shirt stained with pinks the color of the sky. But the sky isn’t pink.

 “You aren’t looking at it the right way.”

  I’m late, I’m pink, but at least I’m here.

 Do you drink yellow paint cause damn.

 The color of sunshine on flower petals. The color of sunshine on pale, glowing skin. The color of a laugh. Verbs don’t have colors.

 "You aren’t looking at it the right way."

 Doesn’t let the rain touch him. Sitting under the overhang for hours, waiting for the drops to cease. Sketchbooks against his heart, shoved up his jacket. They are NOT getting wet.

 Cries in the bathroom. Has stopped trying to scrub the paint off his arms. Couldn’t get a tattoo, couldn’t choose, anything, ever.

 Rough. The texture of dried paint on skin. Rough. The feel of a textured canvas beneath your fingers. Rough. Painting the same thing over and over, because you just can’t get it right.

 Rough.