It was a memory,
hidden in cloud, yet
when I painted
your form
amongst delicate
cotton whisps with
my fingers
it came to me.
Perhaps it had
all ready been there,
the softness of your skin
indistinguishable
from this mystic fog,
the body of your nose
delicate beneath
my trembling fingers.
Your lips warm
the color of a smile
from my heart
despite this cold
fragile shroud.
I paint more
releasing the shape
of your cheeks
and neck,
the spill of your hair,
your creaseless brow
and your dark lashes
jutting out from your eyes
like barbwire,
which will not open.
You still seem
as if you breathe.
As if I could taste
your essence
if my lips trembled
near yours.
If I didn’t touch
they would touch mine.
As if in closing my eyes
you would open your own.
As if we could be together
alternating
one in darkness
the other in light
our souls
only meeting at each turning point.
It is there
in my dreams.
Each night
day, hour, I paint
the whisps cling
like webs
to your flesh
Each time
a part of you
disappears
into steel fibers
of cloud.
Until only this remains.
Soon it will be gone
in memory.
I run my arms through
your hair, tangling my wrists,
twisting and tightening until
my blood coats each strand.
I press my forehead
to your own.
Willing
my own cursed cloud to cling to me.
Suffocate me
in strengthening fibers,
impale me with its cold
meld my flesh to yours.
But
in my own mind
I cannot die.
Please open your eyes. |
Submission Name: Your Face
