But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. I don't see an intelligent, confident man. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.
You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling seen that. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. You're just a kid, you don't have the faintest idea what you're talkin' about.
fell into a deep peaceful sleep, and haven't thought about you since. Stayed up half the night thinking about it. Thought about what you said to me the other day, about my painting.
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