Paint My World Yellow // DNF

Autumn flu or maybe not

Falling for you - BoyWithUke

By the time it's next Friday i don't even flinch as George takes a seat next to me. I just smile at his little 'hi', trying to not disturb me.

As if a noise too loud would make the canvas in front of me shatter in tiny pieces.

And it makes my stomach feel a little warm. Someone being so careful around the things i love makes me want to hand them over to them, let them hold them, let them touch them.

And the way i feel George watching the paint brush dance around the canvas makes me feel like he knows. He knows that i would let him hold it, while most don't even get to see it.

And truly, i don't know why. Because it's been about two weeks and it's against my own beliefs to let someone sit comfortably next to me so quickly.

But George seems like he doesn't really care about time. That might be the reason why he is late to almost every class. Or maybe it's just because he sleeps so god damn much.

And i've heard about it. Because the new people in the classroom don't stay silent, now someone is speaking all the time and and so i ask George questions because he's good with words.

And his voice is nice.

It flows like paint and i have an unhealthy want to paint it but it feels like i have not discovered the right shade yet.

So i talk to him.

Maybe it's selfish to be so self-need driven but his voice just makes the words sound so right that i want to keep it.

He'll leave next spring and honestly, half of autumn and one winter is a god damn short time to discover a shade of something so... new.

George is something new.

He just sits there, quietly explaining things and mumbling words as he writes them down and i feel this need to know him. To know him like Kristin knows Phil. Because she can name his favourite colours in order in seconds and she can tell you his number backwards at any time of the day.

And something about knowing someone so well, so much and so good makes me want it.

And George looks like a damn good painting to paint.

The way his hair falls in his eyes or the way the evening wind makes his cheeks red as he enters the class makes him look like a painting from an art gallery.

And everyone knows it. We all know it. It feels like he's the only one who looks confused when people on the streets compliment him.

I know that too, because we've made a habit of leaving the class at the same time and walking through a block or two, talking because the conversation is too 'once-in-a-lifetime' to stop it.

And that's why i want to know exactly him. Because i'm talking and the words don't sound harsh, really, i don't hear them at all.

I just make my way next to him, trying to catch up to his thoughts as he tries to catch up to my walking speed.

It feels like a crime to say but it feels like all my childhood dreams got buried for a moment like him.

He's a whole experience himself. A whole light show, a whole war, a whole explosion. He's a whole moment.

It's rather scary how i make my way home and i don't feel exactly lonely. And how with every day i get closer and closer to my sister's room. And how with every evening i want to stumble down the stairs and look my mom in the eyes and tell her that it's not her fault. And it's not mine either.

It's rather scary how i was not ready for things to change after spending all this time getting ready for it. It's scary. But it makes me feel somewhat alive.

And it makes my paintings a little brighter.

It's George's fault.

Somewhere deep in my stomach i hope that George blames me too. Maybe not for his poems but for his red cheeks when i smile at him. Deep inside of me i hope that he blames me, not the cold weather.

I should drink some medicine.