I miss the sound of cutting paint paper with a cutter.
I miss shopping for new paint and ink pens and the sweet joy that engulfes me all day, high on my new purchases.
I miss walking through rows and rows of paint and touching paint brushes and contemplating the ones I should buy, the ones I could afford.
I miss their voices, each and everyone. I miss what made them special to me. The ones I've lost. The first's cheek dimple, his voice, the sound of his laugh and his smell. And I have to stop writing what I miss about him ,cause I can go on and on. You see, he was the first. It always comes back to that. Though I'm over it, I know the feelings are gone, but there's an impression that still remains...I don't know.
I'm drawing again and that's good. There's progress. But I can't feel satisfied with what I draw. It's simple and lacking depth. And I want to really draw and paint, like I used to. In the middle of the night, or at sunrise. For hours. I want a stiff back and achey neck for hunching over too much. I want it back.
And I want someone to tell me that I'm pretty. No, not pretty. Beautiful. I want him to see me as such, makes me feel as such. And tells me to my face. The whole thing with my ex, left me thirsty for affection. Cause I didn't see it from him. And as someone so insecure -though I don't appear so- as me. I crave affection like an addict. I crave care and warmness and intimacy. I need these things, like I need air.