His trees collapse as people crowd around him. Pointing, laughing. He joins. He is confused. But his face folds in a way that suggests otherwise.
Maybe he is better.
I've missed his laughs that sprouts into waves of colourful streams. I don't hide from the colours. I am revived at the chimes of his chuckles.
I'm a human canvas brought back to life; and I embrace it wholly. I'm his muse coming to life; and I embrace it wholly.
But art, as I've unfortunately yet to learn, has expiration dates.
YOU ARE READING
HIM
Poetry[Highest: #994 in poetry lol] He's exotic and eccentric. The way he speaks, the way he moves: so gracefully but also so carelessly. As is the way his spirit is childish and interesting but aged and mundane. He's a mystery I'm starting to get hooked...
