Illusions are where we were bound – Indelible.
I fell for the artist, as a writer, embedding his love into black ink.
He painted the words I could no longer write:
Ask the priest down the street about the heart you wish to possess;
how you want to relapse the emotion you once had after widowed.
You merely questioned how one’s pure beating chest,
wasn’t contracted with a light headed soul as yours
– now that you’ve seen her face,
the skin between your fingers tingled with an emptiness of a brush.
In a year, your scintillations glows a bit more gold than these blue ink pens,
a locale of open fields and color-blocked mountains use as a barricade.
Paths painted inset – layered beneath and below the certainty of years,
all of this useless chaos swirling in about these empty distractions, and feeble
pretense –
as you paint her; sculpt her colors.
Enfold our inevitable surrender,
sculpting faces in 100 Celsius; sloughing yellowed paper to Mache her skin.
Pressing your face against the damasked canvas to remember,
her neck of a turquoise necklace, on your rosewood table
as you paint a familiar face.
Saved a memory in the clot in your forehead,
that you’ve strayed into sickle shapes and fickle pieces.
Cautiously you paint her ashes red of your pain, her eyes emerald green and blue:
Spring has come, and you remember her face as you sit here…
Plucking flowers from her grave.
We were the notch in the naïf; complete tessellations in a slew of opals.
He blew past me, subtle in strength, silent in the hymns of prayers;
transfixing beauty to the encounter of the wind
gentle as breeze lifts seeds off dandelion manes, spiraling, winding.
An echo in his heart conjures up a colorful time torn beneath his feet.
He was the color endowed in me, painting flowers on my grave.
Loving him was the fortunate occurrence of serendipity in each page I wrote
like the scintillating sun follows, brightest as we become a climatic whole.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Falling in Love with an Artist
↠ Emilyn's Journey ↞ 