Painted People

I know of a man, a normal man. He has hair and eyes and wears clothes and shoes. He walks, he breathes, he blinks. He bathes, he sleeps, he eats. I think I love this normal man for I, too, have hair and eyes and I wear clothes and shoes. I walk, I breathe, I blink. I bathe, I sleep, I eat. We are perfect for each other how could we not be? We grin, we frown, we laugh. We have fingers and toes and hearts and brains. I know of a man, an ordinary man whose body is clean and clear like an empty canvas with perfect lines and shapes steadily painted on to form an elegant horizon and hung for all to admire. I think I love this ordinary man for his colors are soothing and dull with perfect portions of hues painted throughout. He is smooth and light weighing only as much as his frame. We are perfect for each other how could we not be? He is perfection; a piece of art and I, an admirer of art, could not disregard his perfect eloquence. I know of a man, a handsome man whose body is a canvas painted purple by scars and bruises with watercolor eyes, a pastel smile and a backdrop smothered in charcoal, and is hung in the rain to dry. I think I love this handsome man for I am an admirer of art. Rugged edges take place of an invisible frame that shapes him. His paint is slathered on causing disfigurement in the crooked horizon of his design. We are perfect for each other but how could we be? He is perfection; pieces of art hung out for the world to analyze. And I, a mere admirer of art, stand at a distance in reverence. I know a man, a handsome man who is normal and different and strange. He has hair and eyes and wears clothes and shoes. He grins, he frowns, he laughs. I fell in love with this handsome man for he has something no one else has: My intrigued focus, which admires his blotches of heavy paint splashed onto his flooded canvas. He has depth, prominence, and ambiguity. We are perfect for each other how could we not be? He is neither a beach nor sunset, but a sweet disarray of shapes and lines frantically scattered about in space. And I, myself, an empty star, am frantically searching for something in space. And I am drawn to his darkness for it shields my light. And in this art show of a world we are painted people, hung out to be bought and sold admired and analyzed. And I bought the dark, battered canvas with no expression or poise For I fell in love with this beautiful art, and on my wall, placed near the fire, it will always hang to dry.