Art,  Writing


I remember the first time I saw one of your paintings in person. I remember my pulse racing fast in my breast and slow in my ears and I was standing there trying not to cry, because how could I ever explain to anyone around me that my heart was somehow being broken and knitted back together at the same time. 
You’re still there, in the small, hurt parts of me and the big, loving parts. I open the umbrella I purchased, printed with your colors. I twirl it above me and remember how your brushstrokes have touched all of my life. 

One Comment

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