She said “I love you so don’t you dare run, run away from me now!” He said “I’ve love you from when my eyes first met yours.”
He was a painter and he was painting them a beautiful home, she was a writer and she was writing them a place to belong.
The sombre, penetrating rain fell and washed the colour out of his art. He knew in his heart of hearts that something was wrong, something terrible had occurred to his lovers love.
He was a painter and his heart turned as black as the writers thick black oil hair, she was a writer and she wrote herself to leave him alone with the cold paintings he created to save her soul.
His canvas lays bare on the dusty table; he used to follow her around with his paint brushes, painting her beauty for her to see. Her typewriter sits in the corner, screaming memories to torment him.
He was a painter and he was painting the days he was happy, she was a writer and she was writing about the days she was sad.
He spends his days painting roses on her body and talking to trees, he wanted to give her a world that was as lovely as her. He painted all the love and created the beautiful child, she wrote all the fights and created all the walls for the two of them to live behind.
He was a painter and he was painting himself another world, she was a writer and she was writing an escape.