She stands in the distance,
The smell of a memory on her hands
Old blankets and old incense,
Old meals and tangerine melancholy and wick-fire soot,
The smell of sharp turpentine and paint
Reaching for me, like tentacles floating in the air
She stands in the distance,
Sunbeams dripping from her fingers
She stands, with a question on her face
And I watch her, and I can only imagine
Time standing still, frozen; my soul immortalized in a single stroke of tantalizing yellow
I am made of paint and light
Here, in a standstill moment, maybe as a sprite, maybe a blob,
Existing only as indiscernible pigment, amidst drowsy blues and popping greens
I won’t ever sleep here
I won’t ever talk about the sun or the moon, the stars or the clouds
Here, in this little patch, where all our secrets are held
We’ll lay our feet on the dirt where all the dreamers went to get lost in
She, as a two-toned goddess
In glittering gold garment
I, as her stately muse
Being of the sun, beam of radiance
We are in a painting, the two of us
She holds my hand, in the glow of our own bodies
And the warmth of her palm
I feel it in my throat, and on my face
We are in a painting, you and me
And the way you lay in my arms
I feel a stranger in my own home
Who are you, who are you?
In one strange city of love, I found you
What does real mean? It eludes me
Lost in a dreamer’s world
We seek refuge on the edge of a grove where the water bubbles and sings
When the riverbed is dry
Where shall our feet splash by?
Written by Radhika Krishna for MTTN
Edited by Avaneesh JD for MTTN
Featured Image Two seated women by a woodland stream by Mary Cassatt 1869