Art

A movie

Movies usually had happy endings. There was a thread of a chance I would get my happy ending. Like those romantic movies. The innocent and gullible girls falls in love with the bad boy. Waiting under midnight skies to hear the soft sound of a rock hitting my window. Afraid of being caught by overly strict parents, not caring about the consequences because I'm young, dumb, and in love with no worries in the world. We'd be like a music video, singing beautiful lyrics to one another in slow motion. Our love would melt onto skin as lyrics, montages of beautiful scenery, oceans and fields. We'd be a painting, melting perfectly onto the artists canvas. We'd blend so beautifully it would be perfect, almost too perfect. We'd be bright colors on the right and soft colors on the left. We'd be a genius creation. A masterpiece

That's exactly what we could be.

We could be art.

But we weren't. Not exactly anyways. He was magic, even I couldn't deny that. Not the kind of magic kids laugh at during Sunday birthday parties, or the magic of luck by making it home safely after a very drunk and dark walk home from the bar. He was simply magic. Something humans would never be able to comprehend because even with a piece of him in me, I seemed to not be able to understand him either.

And maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe it was best I didn't understand him. Maybe that's what kept me alive. Us alive. He was art. The type of art that makes you shift your head to the side in confusion on your trip to the museum. The kind that gives you a headache after you spend hours trying to dissect and analyze its true meaning. The kind that after so many days of thinking, you decide to get an exact replica of it on your cracked living room wall. All because it's mysterious meaning and difficult shapes intrigued you. But one night you will wake up, and feel your head open like a flower blooming in spring, and all your colorful thoughts will flow out onto your pillows, staining them the same way your tears did those nights you cried yourself to sleep.

And only then will you understand it's true meaning.

It meant whatever it meant to you.

There was never a true meaning to the beautiful painting that rested above your cracked living room wall. It always meant what you thought it meant all along and that's what makes art special. The ability to reason with it and shape it into whatever your emotions feel and what you love or fear the most. That was he.

He was art.

Confusing and difficult art.

And that made him beautiful.
Absolutely breathtaking.