The Painter

A casual conversation over a cup of coffee in a very corny cafe. Yet she loves his smiles, she loves the conversation. They talked for three hours, but it feels like three minutes. Then there is one flash of thought inside, "if only..."

He was a painter. He claimed to be the unsuccessful one. She didn't believe it. At least he still owns the brush, the pallette, and the colours of his life. He has his canvas nude white. A blank canvas. His canvas is sitting in front of him, wishpering, hoping to be coloured. The canvas sigh. She misses this kind of conversation. But the painter is leaving, walking away to his advanturous life, while the girl _ the canvas_ still hoping to be part in the adrenalin rushing wild world.

Dear Mr. painter, I want to be your canvas...