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The first word that comes to mind when I think of your relationship is “gentle.”
You may not have been explicitly there,
but you are hinted at.
Your presence is there, is palpable.
If she is a movie, you are the score.
You are not the plot, you are the feeling,
the emotion, the inspiration.
Everything she did, you were there in the background.
You were not forgotten. You were there.
Through her artistic eyes, you were there somehow.
You were the street she walked on,
the snowflake she caught on her tongue,
the bubbles tasting her lips.
She was proud of you, the naive love you had for her.
You were a new soul, new life,
yet she was old.
She needed you, her cane, to steady herself,
and you obliged.
You needed her more.
You kissed the hem of her being, her child.
And she loved you until she didn’t need you by her side anymore.
She left for you to grow on your own, this lost new soul,
to wander and wind your way through life’s branches.
Still she grasps your tiny fingers, guides your footsteps as you learn to walk.
And still you need her, and still she loves you.
It is soft, brush stroke kisses, love stained splinters.
It is there. It is gentle.
Throughout my day, you are nothing.
Not a thought, not a memory.
Stretched too thin, clawing at calmness in the face of calamity.
You are between the scratches; the wounds.
The sizzle of an egg on the stove – reparation.
The toe tapping gently to sounds of an era in which you belong.
The slip of sultry whiskey, fire within me.
The whiff of tainted lungs, harsh habits and painted skies.
You live your life as an afterthought.
Content in passing, floating through lives in tormented search of belonging.
Scorching others in your path, branding them with memories.
For you too have kissed the sun and been plunged into darkness.
A gentle quiet, love unbound,
Before whispered betrayal reached her lips.
And you too were scarred.
Crimson bliss transfers a scarlet glow
while bodies twine and tangle,
the amber bottle drawn across its watercolor tarp.
A blushing taste,
that wicked, vermilion sin.
The ghoulish glare a Van Gogh starry night,
and sweet, azure songs pressed upon
a marbled, technicolor canvas.
clenched and clasped, smooth electric skin.
Rose wine promises trill and whisper,
infrared flames lick at her lungs
an inferno writhing against his affirmation.
and a brush of rare artistry.