Four Painters

The first one was simple.  As simple as a child's painting set - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and black.  A small brush that could withstand overeager young artists.  A paper cup leaking stained water out onto some old newspapers strewn across the floor.  He was...quaint.  A quiet, uncomplicated soul if there ever was one.  There wasn't any of the witty banter, the sort that slices and captivates.  There wasn't any grand romancing or extravagant gifts or elegant parties.  There were picnics under the sun, and stargazing with an old pair of binoculars, inherited from a beloved grandfather, beneath the moon.  There were handpicked wildflowers tied with a shoelace on my porch.  There was contentment.

The second was strong and weathered.  He was older - more experienced.  He was bigger, too, in a brawny way that made me feel safe.  He was long hours of silence, of hands running through hair and caressing cheeks, of two people who fit together like they were made for each other.  He was a fat roller brush that could sweep a fresh coat of paint over every flaw and imperfection instantly, smoothing out my walls until they were like new.  He was comfort and safety.

The third seemed interesting, at first, like a bucket of paint in a color never before seen.  He was rainbow hued, colors that changed in the sun, paint that shimmered if you looked at it a certain way.  The bucket he resided in may have been a bit plain, flecked with old paint splatters and well used, but the contents within made up for it.  He was the sophistication that was lacking.  He was stage lights and enormous roses bloomed out of season and shipped from the other side of the world in a rush order.  But he was only color, only paint, with no way to get on me.  He couldn't change the fact that we were just too different.  With him, I was always just a shadow.

The last, the fourth, is something new.  He's more than just a brush or a particular color.  He's artistic, and capable, and beautiful in every way.  He is every piece of everything.  He's a jumbled pile of paints and supplies, everything that is needed to create a masterpiece.  And for once, he isn't only a painter.  To him, I'm more than a canvas.  Together, we are art.