It Reminded Me of You - Rachel Young

I saw a painting the other day. It reminded me of you.

It was bright, vibrant.
Strokes ran wildly across the 8.5x11 stretch of canvas, without order or direction. The colors begged for my attention.
It was obnoxious almost. My old self, the girl that hadn't met you yet, would have laughed at the image, not even entertaining the thought of hanging it up in any space. And yet, here I am now, wishing I could take it home.
I could hear your laugh in my head as I looked at the shapes and hues that seemed to be used at random. Each misplaced line and curve like the awkward jokes you'd say that would make me shake my head while I laughed. I didn't get it, and maybe I still don't. But for some reason, that abstract mess reminded me of you.

I took in the brilliance of a white moon painted in oils, contrasting the deep blue of a night sky on a new canvas, and it reminded me of you. I remembered your smile, the kind that you wore when you looked at me like I hung each star in the sky. The kind of smile that would make me feel like I was the only girl in the world that mattered to you.
But I saw your sadness in these pieces too. I saw a person who was lost, lonely, swallowed up by deep blacks and browns. I saw grays like your distant gaze, muted tones like your unfeeling hands that ran across my skin.

I remembered the days when your canvas was blank -- when you'd look to me with empty eyes and hand me a brush. But there were also days where you would hold me in your arms and begin to paint.

Your colors overwhelmed me. The oils layered on thick. I think I got caught up in the idea that I was now something of your own, your creation, beautiful in your image.

I reminded myself more of you than I did, well, myself.

And now, no matter how many times I scrub at my hands covered in paint, the colors never seem to wash away. A permanent reminder of you.

You are an entire gallery.
Every painting revealing some secret side to you I've come to know.
Vibrance, humor.
Sadness and pain.
You are everywhere, in every brush stroke and color. In every line and curve. It all somehow reminds me of you.

But now your gallery is just an exhibit I pass by on the street on my way to work. Sometimes I peer through your windows on my walk, and see the paintings I used to cherish way back when we were something.
I see the ones that had been my favorites, and the others, not so much.
I see new paintings you've added, the old ones you've removed.

Someday I hope to walk through your gallery once again and add a painting of my own.