Sharp as an edge that does not ask what it is cutting.  
whole as a thing that does not need proof to exist,
thought arrives in full motion before meaning—
color before shape, light before weight,
not as process, not as method,
but truth already formed, unwilling to be held,
which needs no tending, refining,    

It is not a single stroke, a mark left in color.  
It is a corridor of light bending toward a vanishing point,  
a figure suspended in the breath between surrender and flight,  
a mouth parted—not in speech, but in revelation.  

It is an ocean poured into the shape of a body.  
It is a body without weight,  
held between the living and the remembered,  
flesh turned to pigment, pigment turned to memory.  

But thought is a language without translation.  
A thing seen without being rendered.  
It lives complete until the body interferes.  

Lift the brush.  
Already the destruction begins.  

The stroke was not supposed to be a stroke.  
It was supposed to be the collapse of sky.  
It was supposed to be the sound of a name  
spoken for the last time.  
It was supposed to mean something that words do not hold—

a woman made of light, moving without movement,
She is not illuminated by it, but shaped by the silence.  
She is made of it, pressed against its shifting edges,  
her figure stretching into the dusk behind her,  
her outline bleeding at the edges, the last smear of a dream.
a composition of gold and violet,  
her hands lifted not in greeting, but in knowing.  

Yet, what arrives is not what was imagined.  
It thickens where it should have unraveled,  
it bends where it should have stretched,  
it hesitates where it should have declared.  
the perfect thought impossible to render
that does not belong to canvas, to translation,  
the body’s limited means of making.

She moves too fast, escapes too easily,  
is undone in the visible, can not be held.
She will die in the weight of execution.

He will bury her, mourning and living
with the reality that her beauty
can only wholely be seen by him.