I wish to be painted, but my hands will not allow it.
I wish to trace the sharpness of my nose, the curl of my lips,
and my deep brown eyes.
But if my hands remain still,
becomes a tablet of disarray;
once full of vibrant color,
now a shadow of gray.
You choose not to paint me
because your hands do not know
the trace of my skin
and the lightness of my hair.
The silhouette of my body,
from the edge of my cheekbones to the shape of my hips,
goes unrecognized and this outline
dissipates into an unmarked canvas.
I can feel the painting’s loneliness,
and despite the comfort of calloused hands
this canvas remains empty and without warmth.
It is barely an imitation of my presence and
the touch of your life
is no longer reflective of mine.
The beauteous abstract qualities of your work,
once instinctual
become a struggle between
a chest on fire and a mind in distress.
Nothing is left
but the traces of an unknown body.
