//Abhi (noun): That girl who vehemently denied that she is a girlie girl and proudly stated she is a tomboy. She has never been clean. Ink stains on her check shirts, pen dots on her palms, paint smudged on her skirts, and girl, at least wipe that color off your face.
//Nadia (Odia): Coconut. Self-explanatory, but it has nothing to do with the fact that her skin is creamy like that of the insides of the coconut. Tender. Simple. Beautiful. That girl is a coconut, alright.


I trust her blindly to the point
where I will ink my self permanently
with her artworks, without knowing it,

which is... scary.

I have always been a fan of her artworks.
No, not "artworks" according to her, those were
her doodles in every last page of the notebooks,
textbooks, rough books back in middle school,
of her artsy replies to the chits I sent her,
the drawings on the desks she made,
the painting she made on our bodies as a canvas
when the class ran too long and our arms were naked, tired

She can draw anything,

I was awed by it all,
the laughs we shared,
her crude remarks,
those are imprinted, still fresh, onto me.

But that's not why I felt her art is great.

I've always felt that one day
I would walk into her art galleries
and proudly show her off as my buddy.
Childhood Chums, as she calls us.

I know nothing about art,
of the supplies to be used,
of the relationship of colors,
I don't know how to draw...

I could only feel, this searing rush of
emotions galore, not what they were
but I could feel it bubbling me, engulfing me whole
bringing me to tears, overwhelming.
As a child, I couldn't speak these but now I can.

I could only subtly feel her draw me to her
paint me, blend me in her colors so well
seven years later, without any contact,
I'm still heavily tinted in her shades.

She has always been a poet,
but her pretty poetry isn't in words
the ardor drip from her swirls of brushes
from the strokes of ordinary pens
I never knew could create pieces of feelings
wrapped up, cocooned in pages.

She has always had a sense of the sacredness
of the inner lushness of coconuts,
tender loving on the inside;
of the outer toughness of peepal
her strong soul: undying.

She isn't an artist of paper, she is 'art' herself.


//Featured Image is made by her. She made a tattoo design for me. ^_^
//The leaf she painted. It's paper.
//Listening to Mala Mia by Maluma baby. Pretty boy, dirty boy. Ai.

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