… and I, You

There was once an artist
and his lover a writer
they found each other
at a museum

They always thought
that there is something sexy
about these places
and those loud canvases
portraying each corner of an artist’s mind
each state be it
naked, fucked up, beautiful, in love
sad, lusty, or just fantastic

They are homes for wild
thoughts embodied in strikes of red
and blotches of blue along with
lines of black

They kissed between Monet and Frida
they glanced at each other mid-art-contemplation
even though they felt united
their minds were unique to each

She liked writing naked
she always said that clothes kept
her inner most thoughts confined behind clothing
and when she wrote with nothing on
but the breeze against her skin
she felt liberated and words somehow
made their way to her mind and then paper

He always painted with a cigarette in his mouth
and positioned his canvas with her in the background
she was his muse, but her never said it
he kept it to himself, he felt like it kept the spark
there were many wild lines on his drafts
just of her nude body, just to get the inspiration rolling

One day, it was raining, it was midweek
their nights were infused with red wine for him
and white for her, their cups toured the room with them
as they stood up and walked in circles, dancing with their thoughts
before embodying them on paper or canvas

He got his charcoal pencil, he loved the thick
black impression they give to his art,
especially with the fleeting shards
that anxiously spread everywhere
He decided to draw her, to outline
that smooth white skin against the dark couch

He started with her broad shoulders
he loved them, and how rebellious hair strands
left her bun and fell on them

She sat there, looked at him
she never wrote about him, but this time she decided to do so
Her pencil, lay there on the paper
head first, like jumping into an unknown white slate
when she started writing
that lead tip doodled words that turned to poems
to making love on that piece of paper
she scratched insanely on the paper
hoping the lead pencil would never blunt

She looked at him
he stood there, the smoke was disturbing his eyes
he squinted, but his hand was beautifully taking strides like a maestro
replicating his own version of beauty
on that rough canvas
from her thick thighs to her
boney hips, to her carved calves
he realized
that he loves her, it struck him stronger
than his aged red wine
and at that moment of epiphany
he noticed his cigarette was almost done
the ash was defying gravity and hanging on by a simple spark
he lay his eyes on her, it felt different
her light glowed, her body gorgeous
he locked his eyes on his love
he can call her that now
he coughed, he didn’t want that much attention

She diverted her eyes from the paper
that one that harnessed everything
about him to his vision

His eyes spilled emotions
he exhaled,
WAIT NO, he didn’t
he sighed
and she responded
“and I

Henri Matisse doodle

Henri Matisse








Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s