(pay attention to the title.)
We both wanted to be artists.
We wanted to throw our souls into something and CREATE,
a magnificent example of human emotion to remember for eternity.
She always told me she was a little out of phase.
I guess our art was a little out of phase for art school too.
It just wasn't the time to get married.
Paints her house plants red and says they were trapped in their green skin
and wanted out.
Dropped by on saturday,
she's on the kitchen floor with her legs folded
and her arms stretched wide, with the light rays of the blinded windows cutting into her,
tears rolling down the shaded side of her face,
a sea of dead flowers all around: Painted red, I thought.
Opens her eyes and gasps with her hands flung to the floor,
"I can hear him cry", she says, a screaming sob.
"Who?", I ask.
"The baby...He wants to be an artist..."
Cold shivers, blurred vision,smug exterior, you idiot child, both of us,
but I know I'd die if I didn't walk over there,
hold her tight and try to listen to a voice that was a haunting phantom to us all.