The Painter

The painter painted a portrait of us
We were free and unanchored and maybe in love
But he painted it white to start over again
Now the canvas is thick with what could have been
And I'm trying not to forget what was

Squiggles and noses, erections and tits
He paints the obscene, the absurd and is praised for it
He sees the beauty in the sights we pass by
He’s intrigued by the stillness that he’ll never find
And I’ll miss calling him a friend of mine