One day he told me he was dying, and it wasn’t cancer caused by the cigarettes we smoked out back in his yard. It wasn’t a disease he caught from when he spent to much time at his Grandpa’s place in that weird old town.
He told me it was his brain, he told me it was bleeding, bleeding creativity. He told me he was dying, or at least the artist inside if him was. He told me that at this point he was gone.
But I said that there had to be a cure, surely this couldn’t be the end. But his art was his cure, and he could feel it seeping through his viens, and out of his body. He could feel his soul drifting, his eyes like holes, agape.
And I knew where all of it was going, it was now inside of me. His laughter, his amusement, the way he would move his hands, flailing them around and up into the air. His energy had danced it’s way into my heart and now he was worn out.
Because I took everything, everything but his sickness. A sickness that now lived within him.
His art was gone. He wasn’t the same boy I met at a bus stop late at night. And I was kinda high but I told him I thought he was cute and his haircut was sorta funny. He laughed it off and the very next day he was sat at a barber’s shop.
And I could feel my eyes burn when they would conjure up those painful tears I deserved.
I made him feel like he had lost it, when all along he was it.
He was art when the whole room looked at him in awe, the way he would move his feet, that birth mark on his chin, right below his lower lip. The way he would slide his arm around my waist, and that winking of his that looked more like blinking but I didn’t fight him on it.
And he was still art when his hair had grown down to his shoulders, when no one would bat him an eye, he was still art when he sat in his apartment late at night, he was still art when he couldn’t sleep, he was still art when he spilled his tea, his hands couldn’t stop shaking. He was still art to me.
The artist in him was still alive, because art can never truly die. –H