The boy with the paint brush
That’s what he has always been
So what if the canvas was cheap
It still held the sky and everything he saw in the clouds
So much more than most people did
He loved the sky
We had this big Blue over our heads
Sometimes it raged grey, black
How could everyone else walk with their eyes on the ground
Yet it was just up there
He wasn’t much of a poet but maybe it was something in the stars
Had to be
Because he was watching the stars when he first saw her
Something in the stars because she too was looking at the sky
He knew that look
And maybe he had been wrong
There were some things down here worth looking at
His paints trying to catch the line of her jaw in the moonlight
But it was her eyes
What he could see of them
Read from them
And now his art is broken
It’s tangled masses of hair that cover a face
A face you know screams of brokeness
It’s a face that eat up every colour on the pallet
A face with so many moods it’s pain trying to contain them
Who cares if the canvas is cheap
The art is broken
But it’s alright
He loves broken art