You showed up on my blue canvas, a portrait I patted myself on the shoulder for. I’m so very sorry, my dear friend. It is too late now. I can take nothing back, not one thing.
You had your daily runs, walks and a healthy appetite. There weren’t any outward signs,
but I wasn’t paying close enough attention. You were saying you were sick. I didn’t hear your silent words. I wasn’t listening. For two months, I think it was two months, I can’t remember exactly—I was buried in my meaningful art. You kept hanging around my studio. You hadn’t ever done that before. Well, you had, but not to stay. You’d give a gentle hello then return to your usual places, ones of comfort, like the sofa by the piano. We called it your bed not our couch. Actually, it was a love seat. The couch knew more than I. It knew how to comfort and bear the additional weight of the masses spreading inside you. The casual invaders I'd grown too busy to notice.
from The Bark https://ift.tt/35H7iA3
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