And you ruined my white sheets with abstract colors and you'd smile to yourself as you saw your creation. I knew I could never be quite mad at you, after all I did spend hours in the morning making you breakfast (because you couldn't use the stove without burning the food so you gave up on two tries). So every morning you'd mess up my sheets and one of my flannels and yet another tshirt ( I swore once I had no more left but you insisted I was being dramatic and bought me more clothes the next day) and I'd cook chocolate chip pancakes and you'd eat them, coloring the fork with your paint covered fingers and you'd kiss me then and leave an array of blues and purples on my cheeks (because you swore they were the only good colors left) and I'd smile and get ready for work, you joining me after you managed to get out of bed. You'd wear a paint covered shirt (one you stole from me) and worn out jeans and you'd head out to your coffee shop with your built in library and you were oh so happy.