Hopelessly blinded by the flash of his camera,
I could pay no attention to your watercolors,
engravings, charcoal sketches, oil pastel portraits.
The stark white background of headshots
was all I could see; no room for florals and foliage.
Preserved by his image, I thought I was permanent.
You let me see that I am pastel and charcoal -
smudged, with colors distorted, but never quite destroyed,
always with original traces in the deepest layers.
He was watercolor - he could be washed away,
with only watery blotches as remnants.
But you are an engraving, on the strongest, most brilliant metal,
with your lustrous being etched into every atom of it.
You leave your mark on my skin, beneath the bruises and scrapes,
beneath the rusted appearance and tarnished memories,
down to the fragile ribs, through the recovering heart,
immortalized for centuries of admiration.