Painting Sonata
Her skin is white like the sidewalks
in January.
I paint.
The colors spread on white satin, pulled
and rinsed. Pasty azure slithers into
corners, and the avocado
falls like a sunset on the horizon.
She reads poetry by the bed;
hands stained, I cup her chin
in my palms. Her cheeks are shit-
colored, and I can feel the headaches
rising, falling, like Mozart.
Standing under moonlight.
The rain plows her face
and the painting peels
like a waterfall of blushing
cheeks.
Beethoven, Strauss, dragging
my gray hair, her fingers like
popsicles, in and out, in and
out, in and out.
Red roofs shower us, nude
on the balcony.
I paint, and January holds
colors in its snow, like
the ocean, or a puddle;
Cold and hungry, we howl
as icy morning glosses the wooden
walls of home.
I paint, and she holds two
halves of a broken Haydn record
in my face. “Throw it
in the fire,” I cry, and she
pulls the blanket closer to
her pale skin.
We cremate the father of the
string quartet; we can still hear a
cello through the sparks.
I paint, a picture of a sun
square and silent, flowing like
a golden dress in a wedding, sun-slapped
skin and snow, white as skin.
We sing, drunk on
happiness, the ice
cloaking us like death.
I paint, and she lies naked on the couch
until winter ends.
And feel free to PM me if you've got any questions! ^_^
