February 12, 2007

In memory of you.

In memory of you.

For years I have been painting your face,
picturing and not seeing;
writing you from my myth,
that swept around me -
a woman dressed all in black, veils attached to her fingertips.

It was months ago since I last saw you,
with laughing eyes walking into the room.
Your smiles flashed and clanged with mine,
and the toss of your head made me smirk and cringe.
I did not touch you, with my soiled hands,
itchy with the creases of fears.

Instead, I grasped my brush,
and I painted you into my skin,
careless of the scratching bristles that made my eyes sting and my tongue
fight to scream.

Now I am with you every day, seeing this acrylic painting
staring back at me and smiling
- because you have to –
and I cannot see past your carefully groomed hair.

I read about you once,
closing my eyes and feeling your words
sweep and enclose, and I loved you then.

Now I am faced with your silence, as the paint, so carefully applied,
begins to crack and my hands are still,
empty of varnish
as I stand back and watch your mottled, unforgiving tears.


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