She turned more pages.
It’s annoying, alarming,
Sad, and perverse,
To learn one lives
In a suspect universe.
More symbols and abstractions. She risked everything and was finding nothing. It made her more angry.
Another glance up the trail. No one.
She read,
How can I paint her,
Conjure her from memory,
Produce my failed
If timid copy?
Outline her shoulders,
Her neck, her face,
Highlight the glints
In her sable hair,
Relate the sound
Of her voice, her passion,
Depict her bottomless
Storm-fed eyes?
I cannot paint her.
I can only love her.
That is my statement.
More about “the woman.” She didn’t need this.
But it was hard to stop reading. What would it be like to be loved like that?
I want my gift to her
To be her own true self.
I want my masterpiece
To be my love
