She was an art,
but she wasn't the type
you'd find in museums
or the type that would
make you feel profound things
in your chest.

She was an art
tucked in hidden pockets
of a faded yellow dress.
She was an art,

slowly sketching herself
out of existence.

I find myself reminiscing
a fading memory of time
in which I can do nothing more
but recall its evident prime
Memories of my Eleanor

This lady, my Eleanor
is no more than a fair maiden
but see in her deepest core
a soulful art not drawn by pen
filling up my every sense

We were misfits and eccentric
Our astute minds knew well
that our love does not roughly dwell
similar to how great writers tell
but in love, indeed, we fell

Holding her hand was too thrilling
too rare, too foreign, too precious
A moment that was time-warping
An instant I wished not to flee
as it fills in a piece of me

My love for her was all-consuming
and her existence was enthralling
What others couldn't, she made me feel
What's said in books all seemed surreal
until she came and made it real

But now she's gone
and time has run
She's still the lady I adore
in endless cycle of forevermore
My radiant sun, my Eleanor


-
*g.b.