Lingering

The only time I could ever be with her was on canvas,

In pictures on the sand, on poems carved into my very being

I sketched her from memory, as we lived worlds apart

Because even the shallowest works of the mind bore stronger than the heart

So I languished my time to see her made real

At night, I dug into the canvas, the undried oils collected under my nails

Yet if I closed my eyes, it felt as if she could be there

As if it was her skin peeling away under my yearning hands

And as if the painting would contort its rigid features silently reposed

Even then, it showed its reluctance, even in a room coaxed only in shadows

But even then, shadows gossiped haughtily at such risks being gambled

So, I let the painting turn her head from me,

But even then, I never forget her face,

Even when its vision is long gone from my aging mind

I sketch her on canvases with her hair drawn back, facing away from me

Looking across the ocean's waves, I wonder what views she elucidates

And if it would be selfish to insert myself, catching her yearning gaze

When I can no longer remember her stance of yearning, I paint of a wedding dress,

The woman reclined in a chair, face cut off by the canvas's borders

Hung on the wall, the shadows creeping on top act as her billowing head

When that vision goes, I draw a pair of hands calling for mine

Their age matches mine, wrinkled by time and gently nudging their end

And when that goes, I paint a skeleton bare

With my last breaths, this was the only way I could love her with my face exposed,

I laid the painting on the bed beside me, arms too weak to hold her tight

Her existence only existed as I did,

My heart had only came alive as she fixed her way onto the canvas

Each paint stroke cultivated my being from fantasy,

For my life could only be real if she sat in front of me

And so there we sat, nothing but bones and the ink of night