You're ignoring me, not avoiding. It's been a couple days since I've seen you, naked and clothed. It's funny, you're acting as if nothing happened during our classes, listening to the preacher of a teacher's instructions for today's lesson on self-portraits with so much intent, but finally giving me my attention as I call for you in the daylight, pulling you from the swarm of art students who're clashing like the tides in the finest place named Italy.

What was that? The glimpse of your gleaming lips being painted in tinted lipgloss, making you more attractive to look at. I never thought I would see the day where you're finally listening to my greetings without walking off, not capable of caring for any of my jokes that would've anyone else laugh: maybe that's why I'm drawn to you, drawn to drawing you which is what I ask of you, earning your okay and a few steps away from you as you walk upon the roads of the hallways until you're nothing but a embedded memory for the day—you must've liked it, being in front of my eyes with soft touches on your face, angling you in my possession as your shoulder's a bare and your eyes are glossed like floors of my childhood home that's been waxed in PineSol' oil by my mother.

That's the most emotion or life-like thing I've ever seen you in, and I feel special. Isn't it obvious? I know you can't feel my grin as we are here, again, sculpting your figure on my open-wide canvas as you naturally read in my bed, having your back facing me so I can detail your spine which isn't as erotic as my other projects with women, and men who're rather impulsive, not as calm as you.

"You seem pretty focused", I comment with my eyes on the page as I hear your acknowledging hum that's so cooling like the light blues I would wear to the library, hoping to be as sensitive and deep like people would expect with nothing so basic like sports on my mind—but don't judge, I'm just like any other art student in today's world who's tryna' make a living, "Would you mind telling me what the book's about?"

"The idea of love," you blankly reply: I don't know why but my heart feels more weighted, feels like Alexander the Great' had colonized my heart by how much gore it became in my chest as I'm reminded of romance—it's sick, love is for idiots with nothing but celebrity marriages facts in their brain, you should know better than to read such bullshit.

"And what're they saying about it?", I ask with a chuckle, defining my smile in a more lazy way.

"It's more of a composition of things, loveless sex is worthless and romance without love is worse."

"Do you believe in that?"

"I don't disagree, and I don't agree."

*As expected, you're indifferent. You don't believe in Hell, and you don't believe in paradise because if you were to be in either, it means that you fear or praise—that would be too complicated but too bad, I like to be complicated; "Do you think you need love to enjoy sex?"

"Not at all."

"So if we were to have sex, you would still enjoy it, despite the fact that we don't know anything about each other."

"Depends on how good it is", you answer with a small laugh, it's a nice laugh—You should try laughing more.

"Well, hypothetically, I'm pretty sure I can meet your needs", I click my tongue, joking along with you which allows laughter to become a disease between us.

College students, naughty jokes and dirty arts—Who wouldn't known that we would end up here? That's what I ask for myself with every night's arouse, questioning God's reason for placing me to be such a liar, wanting to discover a person I don't even really know when I'm already perfectly situated in simplicity.

Maybe everyone's right, the more mystery a person has just makes life even more fun—That is why my art is the self-projection of how I see you, so beautifully questioning as you are marinated in the essence of untold stories.

Possibly, in this laughter we're forming bonds that's shared between artists like ourselves; opposites in the flesh, or so I pray.