I wait for what I know must come--
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction--
You come; you go.
I smudge over moments in my memory
still wet paint
half unsure whether
it is pleasure or pain
to know I once had
such knowledge of you--
so somatic and yet psychological--
did your fingertips really melt to my skin
or did I only wish it?
Still as I touch these memories--
so so fresh, smelling of
paint in throbbing summer heat--
I know I cannot erase,
only distort.
So, if it be pain that comes,
it comes no matter,
and if it be pleasure,
I blurred the intricacies.
I am fortunate
you are such a talented painter--
the memories remain vivid,
in spite of me.

04/29/2002

Posted on 04/29/2002
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