“SHE: a Woman, Painted”
My lover is gentle, but they say he is mad.
They do not know of his pain, his indecision. “Shall she be blissful, or shall she be tortured,” my love says. “It’s always in the eyes,” he whispers. Will I reflect the affections of misery, joy, and fury that shine in his own?Does he think me beautiful? I do not know if I am so. I am incomplete, this I am certain, for I ache for more substance. Something is off, but I do not blame him, for others demand perfection. They expect sacrifice.
His hands move effortlessly across my curves, hugging my frame and rendering me speechless. The flow of his movements a dance, his excitement pulsing through his soft touch. A streak of ultramarine, a halo of gold, and a final dab of crimson to my lips, the climax—the completion. My gentle lover weeps. He loves me, of this I have no doubt.How can such passion for life be mad?