days of war/nights of love: pt 3

his nose bled slightly on the canvas and he knew then that he had too much. he had only wanted to drown out the thought of her. sometimes the image of her on those sheets was so vivid that he thought he could reach out and touch her. and that was when he wasn't high on drugs. he didn't wipe the blood from his face or the canvas, but instead painted over it. they were one. he sat down on his couch thinking about that. what did it mean to be one like that? he remembered when they first met he had been sick for days afterward: sweating in a fever that could not be explained, incoherent mumblings that either ended or started or were only her name. she had come to see him.

how quickly things had spoiled. he wondered if he could love so much that it be harmful to his health, to his life. he craved this disease like water for chocolate. he stood up on shaky legs and pulled out a new canvas. this one he painted well into the day in shades of blue and brown, painted until he felt like his fingers were frozen. and when he was finished he looked around him at his work and wondered if this was it for him: days full of temper paint and nights heady with her. it wasn't a bad combination - but it wasn't a good one either.