The first poem that I ever painted
but never wrote was not about a
pretty princess with a dress,
it was about a princess with a pretty dress.
Because that was exactly how I drew it.
I didn't make the cloth red so it would go with her pink lips,
I made the lips pink so they would adorn the red dress.
First I sprinkled the pearls and planted the laces
with great precision and perfection,
then I added one last stroke of a crocked smile.
Though I knew something was not right,
I let it be for it was all about the dress that night.
The first poem that I ever wrote
but never painted was not about
how pretty moon looked in the velvet sky.
It was about how she encircled the earth
and how all earths bowed before the sun.
How the sun too had a hero she revolved around
and how the hero too had a sun that he respected.
If each universe was whirling around something,
I wrote, each infinity was doing it's own dance.
And wasn't that what we all had become?
Infinities envying infinities trying to be bigger
than the others until our mere existences mattered no more.
Wasn't that what we were, I asked the words.
A million suns dancing about a million suns dancing about a million suns dancing about a million suns dancing about....
Though I knew it didn't end well,
I let it be incomplete, for that was all it was about.
The first poem that I never wrote
and never painted was about my Grandma.
I drew a short, tired figure holding a cane
to support her wilted body.
I drew her beautiful
because that was exactly how she was.
I made her snowy hair into notes of violin
and molded the wrinkles on her face
into rows of sunflowers across a moor.
Her hands, I adorned them with gems,
her lips, I filled them with flavor of her youth.
Her eyes,
her eyes were perfect.
They were the suns that encircled themselves.
The moons that practiced immortality.
I then gave her the usual battered clothes and worn out shoes.
Though people said they sensed something wrong,
I knew no one could look more perfect.
The poem that I'll never write
and definitely never paint is not about
how you look charming in that dress
but about how the dress looks charming
because it's on you.
How the thousand sumptuous suns
burn in the night sky for you to see
but you're too busy fearing the stormy sea.
I'll draw a million moments compiling up
for a single you to like them and
you breaking yourself up into pieces
for the worthless world to like you.
I'll craft your lips into a beautiful smile
that you used to wear back in the days
before the kids pushed you off the slide
saying you weren't invited and
the crescent of your face broke into two
as I watched from a distance, immobile.
I'll stir the bottom of your eyes where, I believe,
all your light has settled now, and
watch as life comes running into your placid eyes.
Though it will feel a little criminal and wrong,
I will leave it be for this is all I've ever known.
But that is just my wishful thinking.
The first poem that I ever wrote
and ever painted, I did in black.
It was not about the jet-black depth of your eyes
but weak bloodstreams that often
lingered there like spider-webs due to your sleepless nights.
I wrote about blood and how it knew
each part of you better than anyone else
and how, when it flowed, it could move people
to tears or screams, or laugh and cheers
I wrote about the blood because that was all I had
seen the day I had kicked open the door and
seen your being sail away.
I wrote about violence because that was all I had done
as I had silently watched you curse at your reflection
in the dejecting, clear surface of the lake.
I wrote about pain for that was all I had felt
when you had given me a bleak smile
in reply to my inquiry about your heart.
I wrote about death for she was the only one
you had missed and remembered and loved
in the last eternities as she lifted you up
and drifted away with your weightless life.
Though the honesty of my words took my breath away,
I let them be for that was all I had wanted in the moment.
A tale.