You asked “do I sit here?” and I nodded absent mindedly
nudging the easel and canvas over to a better light
and you were quiet and I was lost in a world of lines and angles and shading
and nobody spoke
your breathing was like a river
smooth and unhurried and that caught me
swept me along
and I flowed with you
and time disappeared
It was the mixing that made me pause
the swirl of tints smelling sharp and bright
ready for the magic to happen
for the blend of pigments to become …
and I looked for the first time into your eyes
and stopped.
Time broke the surface in a blast of fluorescent light and sound
 overwhelming me
because I was lost, floundering 
I had never tried to mix the color of despair before
and I dared another glance
and your eyes were fringed with it
stark and vivid
but there is no chart where that shade is broken down 
and the silence snapped in two
as I said, “we’re done for today.”
  and “thank you.”
and you slid down off the chair
 stepped out the door
taking your colors away
and I sat
for a long while
then I took up my palette again
and mixed remorse.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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