Memories disperse into mist –

pointillist specks separating

like the universe –

and numb blanks will pixilate your face

and plane your profile…

so breathe slow,

calm in your balmy stupor,

warm in the glow of pagan flames,

as I dip my brush into liquid sun

and gild you in immortal light.

 

In long strokes, your soles

become golden angel shoes.

I tickle your toes, slipping bristles

between them, and slick your calves,

pushing the brush into tucked-away places.

I glance at your silent face;

it will be the final portrait I paint.

I coat the curve of your buttocks

and the ripples of your spine –

the union of brush and skin our metaphor.

 

From mound to mound,

my wrist furls and unfurls,

graceful and balletic as your shoulders become orbs.

I am conducting a symphony

where musical notes are lovers’ heartbeats.

My brush drips metallic sobs

as I lift your hair

and coil around your fragile neck like a tightening serpent,

shushing your diminishing gurgle

and reminding you of Tutankhamun.

 

I replenish my brush and transfer it.

I must caress your draped hand.

Weave fingers.

I anoint your palms and nails with the gold strands,

gliding purposefully now to cover your limp arms.

I plunge both hands into the unctuous ooze,

slide over the crescent of your stomach,

circle your chest. And lock in your heart.

I paint shut your eyelids, sealing in dark moons,

kiss your lips, smooth your face and give you a halo.