She paints color into his character,
not aware her passion brings him to life.
He stills as she draws near, waiting
to discover if today has been full of strife.
He’s lonely, lying against the white canvas.
Will she paint him a new friend today?
She doesn’t know how much he misses her,
whenever she leaves, or must be away.
He asks himself, why do I stay quiet?
What harm would there really be,
if I talked to the girl with the golden hair
and asked her to hang out with me?
Would she scream?
Would she cry?
Would she panic?
Would I die?
Or would she give me the things I long for,
if she knew that I lived?
A place to sit, something to do, someone to talk to?
Oh, whatever would she generously give?