The Muralist

She wasn't much of a painter; as far as I could tell - but she had a hobby at least. She would hop on these slick roads out of dodge and look for a wall, fence or building side with something to say. I wondered if she did that with me in a way - how she asked me careful questions at four in the morning to see what swaths my side was painted in. That is, did she find me for a story too?

I typically know people better - hell, you can hug a nun after the first date - but I can't place those dreamy eyes. I wanted to say you were beautiful when the wind blew your hair in your face and the sun crept over your myrtle. I couldn't even swipe it aside. I forget that. We just leaned against my rusty machines; you barefoot and doing a fine job at tolerating me. That isn't me you know - I wanted to tell you - I'm a different person than the one you get to see on holidays and weekends at shut-in hours. No good. I can be the guy who tells you if the butterfly name comes from Latin or Greek. I can haul off the hatched and hungry animals that eat your landscaping. I can be a fixer upper of sorts, even handy in my own right. You won't know for some time that I have thought this out in triplicate and stored every nuance of you in twenty six character English encryption.

Somehow, I love these little secrets more than anything. I love being just a shade of something to you, and it is good enough somehow. I have layers my dear, please dig! You paw at the earth like a doe. I urge you to dig. Do you want to hear about the city? Do you want a story about old lovers? I have murals to paint!

I might see you again in a day or two, it gets me excited. The nuance of it all. The burgers and the fried rice - the chandeliers and the bird shit...

Dig, please dig. I promise you will never have another lover with so much lava in his heart.