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My Little Peice of Art
I never really paid attention in art class. What was the point? All art consisted of was colors, and how you blend them. Or at least that's how I saw it. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have even taken art classes. I just never really could see the beauty behind it all. There was no point.
That's when I met him. The only person who could sit a peice of art in front of my face and make me see. He alone could make me depict every single detail, and the meaning of them all.
A lot of people said that the only reason I could see things with him and not others was because he was the only one I wanted to look for. That wasn't true, though. I looked for others, but I could never see. I tried my hardest to see the beauty in the rambels of colors in the creations of others, but I never could.
We spent every waking moment together, just looking over various paintings and sketches, and somehow, I began to realize that there was beauty in art, that every single little peice of work had a meaning, and it all held some kind of beauty.
He taught me so much, not just about the subject at hand, but also about life. He taught me how to respect everything, he taught me to see the smiles behind everything. Even something as simple as a flower captivates my interest now. And it's all because of him.
And now, after the days of him have long since past, I find myself looking at the one little peice of art that he ever painted for me. I understood it now, it was about us, and the love we held for eachother. Even still I find that the love I hold for him can never be compared to the love I'll ever hold for anyone else, and I know, wherever he may be, that he loves me too, just the same.
Smiling to myself, I trace my fingers over the jumbles of color. The painting depected a sunset over a hill top. Much like the one we used to sit at. I feel the tears comming, every time I look at it, but I never let them fall. Crying would be too hard on me. Crying wouldn't solve anything. He wouldn't be back.
I knew that it was not his choice to leave me, I knew by the tone in his voice when he said goodbye to me. I knew by the love and the dedication that was evident in the work of art.
And every morning when I wake up, the first thing that comes to mind is him. He was, after all, my little peice of art.
