I think of you as a model and I a painter I am not. For you, my love, carry stillness I only wonder at.
I paint you naked on our bed, imagine how I’d take this line of thigh, that curve of breast, those dark shadows of the lower back, a perfect ear, a curl of hair, all and more and because, and only when . . .
And after, then we sit together formally, at a concert: there you are all dressed in stillness. Motionless your skirt falls across a quiet knee to a booted leg, you so rich in graciousness and charm that only the flow of a woman’s costume holds for the painter’s eye. Oh, and that warm confidence born of a body, loved, admired, always wondered at; but whose senses so alive to syllables’ speech, to movements’ play.
Therefore with my restless hand I, for whom stillness is a foreign land, hold this pen and scratch this page to write you into each and every phrase, all and every word and line.