the problem is that you only know what it is when you feel it. when you finally find yourself looking into his eyes and wondering what the color of his soul is, seeing him looking back at you like that, and wordlessly the air shivers in its ragged clothes until the both of you find yourselves shivering, too. Tremors in the air, for a second lightness of heart and forgotness of everything behind and ahead. And he laughs, and spills a little bit more, and more, until your eyes can’t believe what they see: vibrant colors in a desert of grays,
and then the painter packs up his brushes, and you remember what it means to live, and walk away.