He was a boy,
With pencil smudges staining his hands.
She was a girl,
Who fell for the art inside his eyes.
He told her everything he ever knew,
And all the shit he had never said before.
She was lost in a daze of confusion,
And maybe she was a bit blind to the light he had within himself.
Then one night, doors slammed shut,
Broken footprints littering her front steps.
She cried because she didn't want him to go
And because she knew it was her fault.
He never returned,
He ran to the woods, creating art
In hopes of forgetting her.
She hid away in the shadows of the night,
In hopes she could fade away like a ghost.
He knocked on her door a year later,
And she answered with eyes the size of the moon.
Surely, he had moved on and was here to tell her
That she was a bitch- at least that's what she expected.
He slipped a piece of paper into her coat pocket and
Immediately darted away for the woods, leaving footprints
In the undisturbed snow.
She unfolded the piece of notebook paper and it read:
'We were art and I still admire us. I can't get this god damned piece of art out of my head'
She smiled and wanted to cry.
Was she to find him?
Was she to realize that she needed to get over him?
- (m.m)