He used to keep me up at night, his slender fingers a fleeting touch against my cheek. The way it seems like a god carved and chiseled his face to the perfect sculpture. His hands left streaks of black charcoal across my body to which he would call the lines of his unfindables. Maybe it was the irony that made me kiss him that night, or what I thought at the time was love. Maybe love itself has always been irony. Maybe that's why I stand in the middle of this room, staring at a piece of art I couldn't have created even if I had centuries to perfect it.
A week later he left. He was never able to find me, and the lines he created on my body would wash off every night under the scalding of hot water. His smell of acrylics and oils that painted pictures full of emotions and stories to which I could never finish. The only artwork he left with me was the contrast of dark blue and purple against my coffee - colored skin. The marks of his mistakes and where I would shiver under each stroke he would give my body. The only place he would leave blank was my face, for he said that was an artwork that could never be altered. I never understood the meaning of those words. I was only a canvas in which he decorated with his anger and touch. I was the painting he created that could never be sold and what a pity that was to him.
YOU ARE READING
Walls.
Jugendliteratur"It was the sunk in freckles that dusted her cheeks and nose like fallen sunflower seeds, they didn't stand out much, not enough to catch anyone's attention. "
