It's so late that its early. The floor of my studio is littered with scraps of tracing paper, bits of tape and hundreds of drawings tossed aside in a head that looks akin to demented cartoon sketches.
Graffiti writing in several stages. From paperboy to piecer. That's the goal. At least piece something on good paper.
For the last year I've battled my style, cried for realism when cartoony is all I had. Berated for simplicity when I should have taken better notice of negative space, but then when you're wholly negative negative space is just space.
I guess that's how I felt in your absence. I put you in that box labeled you love and expected you to fit it. Cursed you for being you, wanted more, but couldn't take only what you gave, couldn't let go enough not to see that if I wanted more you I needed to give you a safe space to be you. You've created that for me and I've yet to give you the space you deserve. Maybe it's there somewhere, in a place neither one of I'd expected.
You said that you're a man and you're right, you said you were no Prince Charming and you were right again.
Still I love you. Not the you that left, but the you that is floating out there. The you that I might run into one day, shiny and improved, same you, just radiant.
Until then Nothing is Something Worth Doing...always.
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