Remembering a reflection of you, softened by time, ripened by memory. In the aisles of my reminiscence I remember the pictures of you like so many colors.
Watercolors.
Soft, and yielding. Pliable, like a warm lip upon a warmer lip. The curves of you...soft edges.
You curse in the mirror and spit at reflections...I find the unveiled you to be...in its most poignant memories, the most recently acquired and preferred taste of mine.
You believe the marks of time have found seams in you, flat spots, errors...I find in you the art,where time is a currency that makes the look of you more valuable.
There is a reason why starving artists on sidewalks have the prettiest and freshest paints...and why the Masters with their fading colors and crispy parchment are worth millions more...it is the art, not the new. It is not the current but the ability to wear the cloak of pretty for so long.
You can push me away, let me feel like the time has passed...let my empty hand merely grasp air and flutter back to my side.
But you cannot erase my eyes, nor the pictures of a place...and the flashbulb bright image you remain regardless of how many times it has been seen.
You mourn perhaps the slight delicate trail that a year may bring...and I find the priceless and perfect reflection of the privilege of seeing you still. Of being able to see you still.
And as the frame of you returns, the dark eyes, the familiar gaze...I find that nothing else matters. That it is not the arm, the length of leg, the change in a curve or the softness of some skin...but the gaze, fiery and returning, gorgeous and unmoving...that remains.
And the other pieces wash away, as so many watercolors, while the steadfast beauty of you is all that I have left to see.
No comments:
Post a Comment