By Gabriela D.
Sweaty, oily spirals cover my body and pull me into yours. Drawing me, painting me into your world. A languid and loose love that lasts so long. The smell of vanilla parchment hangs in the air like an anvil ready to crash down on my head. Ready to wake me up, embers of that violent distaste scorn my hands, and then my hands are in your hands and everything is alright.
You.
Your velvety blue coat, polyester? No. Wool. It’s wool, your wool blue coat, keeps me warm; safe, provided for. Until the colors melt I have you and your wool blue coat.
You hair, I lack words to describe the way they melt into the canvas and melt into my hands with that same likeness of a brush stroke. Soft and firm all at once, loose enough to run my hands through, tangled enough to create such a beautiful scene from white blankness.
Your olive skin, patchy and wonderful. Your skin shows me colors I cannot see anywhere and with no one else. I have learned such a fruitful language of yours, the language of your body. The way your heart pulses against my hand, your cheeks of rosy red flush with a wisp of my breath. Your eyes flutter close when the bridges of our noses connect like a jigsaw puzzle. We fit each other so well in every aspect, and yet I still melt. These vivid swirls and dull colors that surrounded us, everything was so drab and dry but we were an illicit depiction of everything. Even the blue of your wool coat sought to join the darkness, but you clung to white of my dress, keeping me with you till the bittersweet end. And when I melt, I imagine you.
And then there's her.
Your white dress, effortlessly free and easily ripped right from your ample bosom. Your innocence dissolved into nothingness just by my clutch, I could never do that to you. Your nails scrape against the hardwood desks, searching in the murk of this library for my calloused fingertips. When you find them, I pull away, wait…there's more.
She, with her chestnut hair tilted over her head in topsy-turvy curls, easily pulled from their intricate design. And yet I won’t, I love you this way. Easily gorgeous in every conceivable and inconceivable way. I lean in for a kiss, to claim a part of yours as mine. You turn from me, you offer me a cheek, lingering hot breaths along the surface of your pores. I feel the red of you rub off onto me, joining my well blended canvas. Oh how I yearn for you, your existence irks me inside this oily encapsulation of our love.
She means everything to me.
He means everything to me.
And you can find us both in an elusive painting, a painstaking cycle of melting and being redrawn. Reliving the same moment for the entirety of our inky existence, to give hope to the hapless in love. This existence, while it may seem pointless and luckless to you, is all we have. I am ecstatic to live everyday in this painting, as long as it is with her. I am thrilled to spend every second of every day in this painting, as long as it is with him. Until the day we melt.