Remember that fateful day when you suggested that we create a wonderful portrait of ourselves? Do you recall the smiles and the laughter we shared as I agreed? Do you still think about how we began to work on your idea?
In strokes and swirls of red and black and yellow, our souls were unleashed. Within, our voices exclaimed numerous thoughts through different intensities of hues. Our fingers moved in harmony as we carefully planned and laid out each line and every shade. No elaborate words were needed between us, for our hearts spoke the exact same ideals, and those were more than enough to direct both of us to painting what we wished to.
Something within my psyche urged me to dip the paintbrush into the can of green paint. Considering it as a harmless dare, I let the tip of the paintbrush come in contact with the green emulsion. I swirled the paintbrush with a nonchalant flair. Satisfied, I gripped it tightly and held it against our canvas. I prepared to make a thick, green imprint out of it.
Unexpectedly, your fingers enclosed my wrist and hindered me from continuing my plan. Moreover, your action stunned me so much that all I could do was to stare at your eyes.
Not waiting for me to ask you for an explanation, you told me that it would be impossible for us to finish the portrait. You made me understand your doubts and realize your fears. Although I myself was aware of those matters beforehand, the event seemed to inject a poison of sorrow into my being.
Nonetheless, I accepted your sudden change of mind. You kissed my paint-stained fingers as a sign of gratitude. As we mentioned our goodbyes, I wanted to weep. I was tempted to show you how painful it was for me to let you go yet my love for you prevailed. I could never allow my selfishness to imprison you in a world where you would be uncomfortable. As you stood and left, I bit my lip in fear that I would shout your name and cause our separation to become harder for you.
That incomplete picture of our dreams is still in my care. Even though in other people's perspective it is nothing but a mess of splatters of undecipherable color combinations, for me it is my most valuable possession. It reminds me of the stories we once reminisced, of the days we once treasured, and of the love we once cherished.
I still miss you. I cannot measure how many times a minute that the image of you would appear in my mind. Even the subconscious fraction of my spirit drowns in your memory.
I would like you to know that I am willing to wait for the moment when you would come back to offer your help so that, together, we shall accomplish that portrait of us. And who knows, maybe this time you would let me touch that green paint, after all we are just a couple of birds learning how to endure the bitter representations of distance . . .