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