You would be my sculpture.
I'd spend hours on you.
Your face had taken shape,
Your neck was molded new.
I formed your pale legs,
My clay perfect for the fit.
For days I worked on your torso,
For days I only patiently did sit.
Solidifying was real quick,
And I had to be careful.
You could break if mishandled,
I needed to be gentle.
You still had your eyes closed,
So I kissed your dry lips.
But you still couldn't hold me well,
Despite your arms around my hips.
And so I carved your hands,
And caressed them in mine,
Then finally you entwined our fingers,
At last we held back time.
To koreen and her Dearest.
An artist would make art out of the one dearest to her/him, and missing them would supply the will to finish the piece. But no matter how many sculptures, paintings and sketches I do, they can never compare to the real you. One day, I believe, you will hold my hands, and for that time to be the golden seconds of my life, I will not loosen my grip and let go.
