Frameless

         The Rusty blood scent conquered the air as I entered his room. I knew he felt my presence but he just continued taking pictures of his new art piece. Carefully but clumsily holding his phone for a perfect shot despite his sweaty palms that blend with ink stains. He motioned me to sit on an empty stool beside him without glancing at me. His hair nearly touches his broad shoulder and his uneven bangs accentuated his restless eyes. How are you? He said monotonously. For some reason, I love hearing his voice even though it sounds like a 15-years old hitting puberty, maybe because he's seldom to talk. Just fine,  I plainly said. New fresh lines of the plowed garden of red roses visible on his left thigh, bleeding his pain. Yes, it hurts but I'm no longer content from the pain it gives, he said as if he already read my mind. A pinch of shame slaps me when I realized I've been staring at his wounded thigh so I simply smiled at him. Do you want me to put a bandage on them? I offered, but he simply gave me a gesture of No. Coffee? He said. Black for me, I replied in delight. He met my eyes as if saying I'll be back in a moment and went downstairs without a single word. Out of boredom, I stand to look closer to every art he made proudly pinned on the walls. A kind of drawings that demand to be stared at and requires a deeper understanding. Arts that displays expression and confusion, of screaming pain and triggering satisfaction. Arts made with ink and blood, literally. Some drawings are quoted with carefully crafted poems giving more life to the piece that tickles my mind for my perspective of understanding. A kind of art that only a few can appreciate. Until one drawing caught my attention. I'm nearsighted but I don't usually look closer to any art piece half-foot apart that I can almost smell its dried sweat on paper, and dust. A girl dangling in a noose beside ripped skin and bones, exhibiting tearless cry. Something that revives old memories in me. A feeling of not being content by just looking at the picture so I tried to raise my hand to touch the image with my trembling fingers. I'm not sure if I'm trying to believe if the drawing is real or the drawing feels like it portrays myself as my tears voluntarily kissing my cheeks.
Coffee? He interrupted as he entered the room so I quickly wipe my tears before facing him.
       We talk about the reality of life while sipping our coffee as we watched the sleepy sunset beaming against us. Treasuring his voice as he talks like I'll mimic it in my head afterward, but what matters to me is the realization that he's not a self- proclaimed artist, he is more than those well-known or well-paid artist who's painting is proudly framed and displayed. He's more than what he painted that touches one's soul, more than his untangled poetry that pricks every reader's mind.
         As I emptied my cup, I'm wondering if he ever realizes that he is an Art. The late shadow of the afternoon already engulfed us, without looking at him I broke the silence by saying, You're a true masterpiece.