The moon song - Beabadoobee, Oscar Lang
"Yeah see and that is how i ended up writing my second poem ever, it was something about weather i'm pretty sure. I promise you, it was awful."
After Wednesdays class George started telling me about words in general, about his way to class and how incredibly excited he was about autumn and George somehow had made words feel so easy, he just let them flow and who was i to stop him? So we didn't. We made our way out of class and then through a block or two. And he talked until we sat down in a cafe. And i laughed because George somehow makes words flow and that makes me feel easy.
And as he tells the stories about him i take out a drawing block and i let the pencil dance ballet in my hands as the shape of George in a cafe corner appears on the off white paper.
"My mum apparently liked it though because she taped it to a fridge in our apartment and sometimes i would see her reading it. For an eighth year old like me it was pure heaven, i felt so proud."
I smile at him and that's the first time that i notice the faint freckles on his cheeks and how his eyes twinkle in the faint cafe light. And when he smiles back and stops talking i notice his steady breathing and how his cheeks colour faint red the longer i study his face. But he doesn't say anything. And i don't either.
So we sit in silence and just look. And i notice the way his fingers rub against each other and the way his nose starts developing a blush too so i chuckle and he laughs too.
"Stop. It's hot in here. Let's go."
without a question i gather my things and follow George outside. It's probably a good time to notice the slight rain.
"I should go home. But we'll meet each other soon right?" I can't help but ask
"Of course. Come on, next time you'll teach me to hold a paint brush."
And so i make my way home, i should probably be tired from all these conversations but somehow i feel fine, i feel almost better than before. George has something little about him and i don't know how to explain it but i keep wondering how hard it would be to explain it with paint.
That same Friday i'm back in the classroom and when George makes his way around the classroom i smile but don't take my eyes away from the canvas. The paint brush in my hand twists comfortably again and as George takes his seat i finally look at him.
"I was thinking, Dream, if Wilbur was a colour, what do you think he would be?"
"Wilbur?" I look up and land my eyes on the tall male sitting by a window with a guitar pick between his teeth, scribbling something down on a paper.
"At first he looks something like walnut brown but the longer you look.. i'd say juniper green."
"Hm. Yeah, what about Niki?"
"She has to be heather purple. Maybe soft stone."
"Oh? That's one that i have not heard before. Ok a hard one now.. Tommy."
"Crimson red. It's a nice colour, don't get me wrong. Sometimes it can just get a little much."
George laughs and i smile at that. I like it when he laughs, he has the type of laugh that sounds like sunshine.
After a little bit of thinking he turn back to his notebook and writes something down.
"Today.."
"Hm?" I answer not taking my eyes away from the painting
"You can say no if you want to but maybe you want to do something? I don't know, we could just go for a walk. I want to see the world with your eyes."
I finally take a look at him, nervously staring back at me. I laugh a little and nod my head
"Of course, why not."
"Oh, ok. Good." I smile and just like that we are back deep in making our own art, somehow, really without a reason, George next to me makes me feel better. He just sits there, playing with the pen in his hands and just like that i have a new story to paint.
As some type of sunset appears on my canvas i take a look at George's notebook
I'm watching sunset on Saturns rings
Taking a breath, resting my wings
I'm playing hide and seek on the Mars
Dancing ballet between the stars
Don't listen to the moon
I cant promise to be back soon
But if the futures too hard to decide
Look up and let our universes collide
YOU ARE READING
Paint My World Yellow // DNF
FanfictionThere is Dream. Most days he is an gallery. An art exhibition of all the things that he wishes to forget. Most days he misses things that he has never done and people that he has never met. Most days he is a glass half empty. There is George. Some d...
