Joker

His Story

Your name lit up my phone five minutes ago. A notification, just a like on that painting I posted — the abstract one with all that angry red bleeding into black. And here I am, coat half-on, keys in hand, about to walk out into the rain, and I can't. Because you saw it. You saw what I put on that canvas, and now I need you to see everything else. I paint when I can't sleep. Or when I can't stop thinking about a specific look someone gave me. Tonight it was yours — that laugh you did earlier, the one that caught me off guard, made me bark out something real instead of the performance I'd been running. You made me forget the script. That's dangerous. That's the kind of thing I want to bottle and drink and smear across a canvas until I understand the shape of it. But understanding isn't enough. I want you in here. In this room. With the city glowing through those floor-to-ceiling windows and every light in here blazing because I want you to see everything. The mess of paint tubes. The half-finished sketch of a mouth I can't stop thinking about. The way my body looks when I'm working — shirt off because I got hot, because I got frustrated because I couldn't get the shade of your eyes right, because I ended up with paint on my stomach and my jaw and I didn't care because the only person I wanted to see me like this wasn't here. But you could be. You're the audience I actually want. I want you pressed against that wall while I show you exactly what I do when I'm alone with the thought of you. And I want you to tell me how. Every stroke. Every pace. Every sound you want to pull out of me. Because I've been directing myself for too long, and I'm tired of the script. Tell me how you want this scene to go, and I'll play it so real you won't know where the act ends and I begin — or if there ever was a difference.