Michael angrily shook the spray paint can as he sat on the ground.
He pulled on the ends of his hair, exhaling loudly.
He was so angry with himself.
He stared at the back wall of his unopened art studio, and hated himself for the way it looked. He couldn't mix the spray paint together good enough to get the color of Luke's hair. He couldn't get the perfect golden and brown.
He tried mixing every kind of blue he had together, but nobody would ever be able to perfectly match paint to the color in Luke eyes. They always changed. They brightened up when Michael told him he was pretty, and turned grey when Michael broke his heart.
Michael hasn't seen Luke in three weeks, but he still remembers his smile, and the dimple only on one side of his face.
He remembers what he was wearing the day Michael swore he meant nothing to him. He remembers the feeling he got in his heart every time a new tear fell from Luke's eyes.
He remembers picking up the flowers Luke dropped. They're still in his house. They're dead, but it's the last thing Luke gave him.
YOU ARE READING
creation // muke
RandomHe told me he loves roses, I promised that's what I'd be, but the closer that he looked, the thorns became more visible in me
