I have begun to paint our portrait
like a woman in love would do;
with your hands on my waist
and my arms around your neck,
nose nestled into your chest.
But as the final touches occur,
(I save your glasses for last, for
the light’s reflections on the lenses were what
caught my eye at first glance.)
I turn to you to get them right and

You
slip
through my grasping fingers,
slick & slippery you.
I beg and I try to hold onto
your glowing face
your shining hair
your haunting voice,
but when I open my paint-smothered hands,
you’re no longer there.
Like the lost back of an earring,
I retrace my steps,
wondering where I could have possibly misplaced you
                          (done wrong),
and stumble upon the truth:
as the paint dries upon my hands, I realize
I have forgotten my name.

And as I wash my hands
(of you?)
in the bitterest of waters, I ponder
how terrible it is to be forgettable.

I leave the brushes on the easel,
the paint pots out to dry and crack,
and the canvas is left
without your best feature.