I live in Canada and am an aspiring digital Artist and poet.
I'm hoping one day to become famous or just really good at something.
Currently I am on my way to College for varying reasons.
My friend the Artist "If you ever want to get really good at something you have to practice for eight hours a day. You have to dedicate yourself to it. It's hard, and even I've been having trouble, but one day at a time."My friend the Artist by Saya69
It's from our last conversation together, we were shoe-less, he was the artist, I was the muse he wanted.
We were friends and even though he was beautiful, we never slept together.
I prefer it that way.
He would paint on my body, take photos of me, he was encapsulated by my body.
We were in love, in the most artistic way. We never dated, we didn't want to. We had years devoted into hiding this elicit friendship.
Last summer was the most I had seen him. He came back from B.C. Where he studies art as a profession and lives with his girlfriend.
We took a walk one night. No shoes, just the feeling of cement underneath our feet at ten o'clock at night, a retirement town when no one felt awake.
We talked for hours.
About nothing, and about everything, getting lost in each other's views
GroundedFingers ran through my hairGrounded by Saya69
The soft breathing against my shoulders
Words, his words, his voice.
Mesmerized by the subtlety of them
Eyes as pure as the ocean we swam in
Lips that curved against my finger
when I ran them against the contours
of his face. I love you
Heat ran up to my face,
words slowly melting into my skin.
I love you too
The Innocence. The lust, the feeling
of his body against mine, the
contours and lines of our bodies,
melting and disappearing just like
His confession. His undoubted
want, desire and need. So why
did he see me, as his own bound victim?