Paint My World Yellow // DNF

In my throat it was always october

Alone with You - The Brummies

And that has to be what love feels like. That's- that right here.

Georges hand in mine as we run down the hallway five minutes after Kristin leaves the class. That's love.

Love is Niki smiling at us and Wilbur nodding his head as George takes my hand in the classroom.

Love is Kristin reading poems that flow like

it might be the winter air
or the way you play with my hair
that makes me wonder
how warm your jumper

and smiling at us. That's love.

Love is us laughing as we burst through the art schools doors and run to the park through the snow.

Love is us laying in my room as George plays with my hair and we hear Drista laughing in her room.

"You're worth every single little thing on this earth." He mumbles looking at me.

"You're worth every first snow, every pancake, every poem, every rain and every morning. You're worth every summer afternoon and every colourful leave. You're worth every summer and winter, every fall and spring."

"And i know you'll laugh, that's fine too, i might sound crazy but you're worth every single one of those things because you are the mornings and late nights. You are the raspberries and cups of tea. You are the rain and sunshine. You are the past and future. You are the sunrises and sunsets."

That's love like never before.

And i think, what a shame that we care.

What a shame it would be if we wouldn't.

Because the truth is, as painful as that might be, the hurt is the only thing that sets our souls free.

And that's why some days i wake up feeling like Claude Monet or Rembrandt.

And some mornings George opens his eyes and he sees the world like William Butler Yeats or William Shakespeare once did.

And that's a sight to see. It's a heartbreak in heaven, as i helplessly sit next to him and watch the pages in his notebook bend from all the pain, all the heavy. And still it's a sight to see. Still it's an art to make and love to feel.

Still it's my George and i'm his Dream.

And that's one hell of a sunset, one hell of a song for Will to write or Jack to paint.

some days i just lay in my bed, my mind whispering

'i hope he's feeling too good to be honest with me.'

And most days he is. Most days he loves too much to turn off the lights. And that's a thing that i didn't expect. It might sound like an awful thing to say but i never thought that a love like this would last, that a crime like us would stay. We're artists.

And we love each other.

And i wonder, how many artists are laying in their beds, thoughts running and not the bad kind. It sounds wrong. It sounds like a crime, like a mistake.

But we're artists! Why are we not crying yet?

I guess we do. I guess we still bleed and we still break. Just now we bleed together, it hurts a little less so in a way it makes me feel like i can take more pain.

And so it goes, we spend the winter days together, like artists shouldn't.

But we're eighteen and it might be a damned time to be in love but here we are, skipping the art class with our hands intertwined, like they shouldn't be but they are, they are so much that the strong wind can't pull them apart and strange looks only make them tighten more.

We're artists and we're eighteen.

And this is bad time to be in love.

But it hurts so good so i think, maybe it's not. Maybe, just maybe, i've never seen a sunset like this before. Maybe i've been preparing myself for the pain so much that it has decided to not come.

Maybe i have once again prepared too much.

Because there's no in between. We're either eighteen and in love or not.

And we are.

It's a beautiful sunset and it's a beautiful winter.

And it's a damn good time to be eighteen and in love with yellow poets and melancholic painters.

Or Claude Mone and William Butler Yeats.