I am in awe of you. Your work makes me weep and curse and swear that I am going to be better. Your work resonates and makes my heart ache and fills me full of questions, questions about us and out past interactions, of what this meant and what that symbolised, and that night, and what you said to me, questions about all of it. Your paintings hurt me in my heart, real pain, horrible pain and longing, and that's the only way I can put it. You make me wish I was a painter. You're the best artist I know, and I know some pretty fucking great artists.
I probably love you.
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