We walk across the gallery
We walk across the gallery, holding hands skilfully,
like the first time, hesitant to hold too tight,
afraid of distance lingering between fingertips.
These moments now lost in this lofty hallway.
I stop and pull away...
I see our love, like your abstract art, deformed, distorted,
impossible to dig out the hidden scriptures.
Lost in the sea of dialogues, the few conversations
can hardly create a bridge to travel the distance between us,
shapes that neither correlate nor reflect,
a paradoxical mess you exhibit for the world.
An explosion of colours,
altering the mind but dancing with pride,
heads held high, arms straight and steps light.
You lured me in—
I turn towards you,
your hands clasped around my wrist.
I look around.
I’m painted in silhouettes, just on the side,
a frail figure, hiding,
slowly disappearing, cast off by a thousand rainbows,
bold, screaming, shouting to please.
You steal the eyes and hearts of those without a soul.
They enjoy the game, your game, the illusion of ‘I’
that gets greater with every tireless brushstroke,
colours at war, bright, dominant and shapeless forms
that dazzle the eyes.
Always so avant—garde and yes—abstract...
I once loved realism until you swirled me in,
for every artist needs a prop to dance the dances
you command and form the colours you gaze upon.
