I’m in love with a stranger.
He is a painter.
He paints in articulate words and vivid colors,
And I find comfort in his unfamiliarity–
It captures my image of what bold should be–
Like the edges of his skin when I touch him–
But he stands behind a door without a number,
And it rests at the end of my sight,
So I continue to move towards something that is, and isn’t, there.
I am in love with a stranger,
And he is a painter.