Love and Other Alienations #14
the day before yesterday i painted the sky.
so this is how gouache smells like, you said
it smells disgusting. and i laughed, so vibrant
yellow and neon green and barbie pink and
sapphire martini blue are spilling
all over the floor from my mouth.
we debated over the clouds.
there was nothing as enough clouds for you
and you acted like we would insult
you late grandmother and her patch of
brown mushrooms in the backyard
if we wouldn’t put just another cloud
on the canvas. we fighted
for the paintbrushes. messy
and lousy and with unintentional
bruises, just like how i paint –
i’m sorry that i am such a bad artist.
i can never draw something correctly
no matter how much i try – the blush
of your cheeks is always a bit too red
like you’re shy and excited and in love
all at one, eventhough you’re not. your eyes
avert, searching, a soft glow of dark and earnest
brush strokes. you would lean on my table,
or sit in my couch, or sleep in my single bed
where you pull the duvet up your chin and your toes
squirm under the golden light of the world
in my paintings. but that’s not true, isn’t it?
im sorry that i am such a bad artist.
i cannot paint you correctly, instead
i imagine you a different version of yourself
and she appears on my canvas. so playfully
and endearingly and impressively
i have the illusions that in the stark reality
her original model loves me
just the same.