Art is hanging over me like an impossibly forboding cloud etched in silver lining. Yes, our relationship is that lyrical, that hazy, that saturated in endearing cliché. We are ephemeral and delicate; She (even in her English language form, from soft beginning to hard end, Art cannot hide the curves and angles that show Her to be most decidedly female) as the experienced lover, me as Her timid ingénue, we court.
She watches me lustfully and yet with wisdom gleaned not from age but birthed with divinity, She waits.
She is subtle, this one.
Though I forget her for weeks on end rather than remind by seeping guilt into my internet-addled mind, she inspires: I'll walk down the street, lost in disposable thought when, upon seeing an indigo flower lounging in a bed of ferns, their combined shadow slopping on cement that glitters with magic fallen from a million children’s eyes--
my heart stops. My feet grow leaden and the world shifts into possibility. Her caress is like that, sudden and complete.
If I let her, I’m sure She could teach me a lot about Love.
Our connection takes different forms. Sometimes it is poundingly soft, like that fern-encased flower playing with its shadow, and sometimes it is so sad that my physical senses are shifted and gray is the only color that my eyes can see. Sometimes she drops her compassion and lifts ego’s shimmery veil to expose me to my insignificance. Sometimes She pities me and gilds such insight with a swath of self-aware depression but at Her cruelest honest, She steps away and leaves me to drown in my own worthlessness.
I’m afraid to love Art back.
She scares me but I know that I won’t be happy until I open myself to Her and let Her ravage me for everything I’m worth. She was my soul’s first mate and to deny her place is to deny myself. I know that I can never really love another until I let Her love me.
