I looked at her while staring at the painting.
My gaze was into her strokes of blue.
Fine strokes with swirls, such as her tongue
Likely would make upon my stomach.
I looked into her eyes as she sat on hard
Chair looking into mine, curious but scared.
Behind her own brown eyes was a life lived
In hesitation, to meet the others of importance.
I turned again to her paintings and saw sadness,
Low on the wall, she had hung her shadow.
No amount of talking left us with truth.
I dreamt of her sweating in the yard, planting.
And again of her astride my life, hands on my
Chest, heaving herself against my bones.
Madness is waiting for the inevitable.
Go there and stare at it instead. Love insists.