looking back, I believe you liked to look at yourself on the canvas.
how much time you must have spent against the mirror admiring
the deep curves of your upper body, the shining reflections,
how light hit the contours and shadows
fell along the human places we call man.
you called your own body suitable for the brush,
to what still hangs above my head, no longer a white canvas,
the supple eggplant, deep purple, almost magenta
temples coming through reflected light.
it moves above me like a hallucination, a haunting intention,
innocent vegetable as man from shoulder to wrist.
painted next to me, wrapped around my body
the moment I realized a man cannot be everything
especially one who only knows how to paint himself.