Supine, wrapped in scarlet,
only eye open, third.
I create her skin, flawless and golden;
her hair becomes the color of midnight
on the ocean,
blood at night.
Suspended, bound in purple,
capitulation, freedom.
These lonely visions, they are cobblestones in my twisted path of memories both past and future, overgrown with weeds of time and worn around the edges; an uneven course winding in and around and back again, with branches, heavy and black,
so black,
on all sides.
Where are you, dearest?
I smell acrylics and oils and linseed
and the windows are open; traffic hums on the hill and your brow is furrowed as your brush caresses the canvas, each stroke, love manifest.
Later, you will sing for me
Fluid, mercurial, she sings and paints
and broods
and pouts
and wipes her cheek with her thumb, smearing alizarin crimson on her pixie face.
Time stops at her beauty
The moment falls into my guts, burrowing into
my insides forever;
the plants by the window,
the deep red smear on my angel,
the sound of camelhair hitting canvas, forever mine now
to cherish and carry
with me as I trudge this
desolate and dreary landscape.
*When I come home,
you will sing for me