A symbol. Sign. De un destino distinto. A residue.
The brushstrokes embraced each other
At odd angles and denied one another
At the edge of the canvas.
A yellow hue sang a ribbon
Across the backdrop.
The red danced a melodious
Affair in every square inch of space.
Fragments of the world that cease to exist
When everything becomes a uniformed and distinguished moment.
When rotated to a 90-degree angle
Your eye perfectly sketched with charcoal pencil
And perfectly out of place among the paint
Appeared to be mocking me.
I blinked and hesitated and felt it
And breathed it and believed and touched
And kissed it and the paint and the charcoal formed
A distinct trail across my lips.
I drew my fingers to the crease.
I touched and smudged the colors in all directions.
The beginning of my Cubism.
A perfectly painted picture of you remained caressing my face.
All the names I wanted you to be
Were resilient which I found trivial
To pursue the meaning.
In an attempt to find the path and the impulse
At which your fingers would engage
In a reflex to warm the blood in my fingers
I felt removed.
Suddenly halted.
The realization?
I wanted to be Dublin.
For you.
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