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The love of my life is a painter.

and I awe at the painters cellar
Fresh paint made its way into my nostrils
He was painting her again

His brushes had grown accustomed
To this one madame

Such Piercing eyes her gaze too intense to glance at
Subtle lips never kissed never sinned
Exuberant hair… each strand held a story
Stories untold because no one was trusted
Cold shoulders preserved for no man.

She didn’t love you did she
No she didn’t love.
Why then do you fill your basement with her images…
Why do you want to see her over and over… again

Paint another woman paint me
Paint…. Me
But you looked at me with piercing eyes
Stroked my hair each strand acquired the story of your touch

‘I don’t love you.

I don’t love’
And Those words bequeathed from your mouth
And took root in my artless

Now its spring… I’m in my basement
Painting you.
You didn’t love me.
I will paint you to love me

just like you did to Genevieve.

i will wed you on canvas.

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