An empty easel and leftover pizza
The past 2 weeks have been nothing but greasy.
The smell of oil paints and those that are already on the canvases being cured.
Polluting my nose with their distinct odors
Patching my broken heart like sticky glue
I had leftover over pizza for breakfast
While staring at an empty easel because all my work now is done.
The cold and greasy pizza.
Why would anyone eat that, I thought.
Then I thought of you
Thought of us, precisely.
We are like an empty easel and cold greasy pizza early in the morning.
We'd have nothing else to do because everything was said and done.
But then we'd always have leftover pizza
Pizza that turned into something else than when it just came out of the hot oven.
We'd still love that bite on the greasy cold pizza
We'd still love the unique smell of oil paintings.
Intoxicated, perhaps, I said
Those or us? He asked.
I can't think of anything worse and better than those, I said
We stared at an empty easel with quite full stomachs and hearts.
Then we said goodbye
To create another painting and poem
Waiting for the hot fresh pizza to get cold and greasy again.