Work Text:
a. statement
he looks you in the eye.
he takes your hand and says what you had been waiting to hear.
b. second theme
you explain, analyze, understand.
he creates.
there's an unbridled energy that alights in him when he picks up the brush, the pencil, the ink. the way his eyes light up makes your world that much brighter. glancing up from his work for a second, he
a. restated
looks you in the eye.
setting his pen down, he takes your hand and speaks; softly, brightly, warmly. his voice is enough to make your core, intractable and rigid as it may typically be, melt down.
c. third theme
he is poetry.
you are not.
he takes you off to versailles, hoping for some grand takeaway regarding architectural styles and artistic design of the city.
he claims it is more full of ghosts than any place he knows.
but putting any apparitions aside, the city itself has an extremely high-functioning, well managed water system, which excites you.
water is perhaps the most essential substance for maintaining human life, speaking rationally.
but poetry is not rational; poetry is letting yourself drift in the wind with a pure conviction that you will get where you need to go, having a premonition of disaster and yet allowing yourself to continue on with what you are doing simply out of your love and joy for the act. poetry builds worlds; on canvas, on paper, in bright eyes that look directly into yours and compel you to bare your soul.
you are not poetry and he is.
his poetry counteracts your rationale, leaves heart-shaped marks in your brain that impress themselves even deeper as he
a. restated (again)
looks you in the eye.
and he grabs the back of your head,
pulls you into a kiss.
b. second theme (again)
you explain, analyze, understand.
he creates.
he had asked you if he could paint you.
(why? surely you are far too ugly to be the subject of a work of art.
how could you, in good conscience, be the inspiration for the creations of another?)
you only agreed because of the way the words came out his mouth,
how the world shifted around you when he smiled,
his eyes his eyes his eyes
and so you concede to his pleas
(he's so happy. you wish he was always like this.)
you sit at a desk by the window, pencil in hand, hovering over papers.
“is this good?” you ask him, adjusting your posture a bit.
“the very model of an intellectual.” he beams, and oh, isn’t that delightful?
his face drops a bit. “are you sure you want to do this?" he says, ever thoughtful and cognizant of the needs of others. "it might take a bit. you might have to stay still for quite some time.”
(you’d sit still, paralyzed, for an eternity, you’d be a damn victim of medusa herself if it meant he were happy.)
“yes. definitely,” you say, but these two words cannot begin to describe just how sure you are.
a. restated (again)
he looks you in the eye.
he takes you hand and says those three words
(that he really had been saying all along).