living with me
was like having
a giacometti sculpture
in your back pocket. that's hardly
a compliment
for an accomplice. am i that prickly
and artsy that you would have
me limned as a linear
exertion?
i don't need to go over
and over, revisiting the lines
of you as i inscribe your face in my mind.
it is a sad one, your face. i hate to think
that i've made it that way, but so be it. you'd
rather hear it from a stranger - that color
is incidental and washy - not something
defining your world; not really even enhancing
what has, for you, been determined to be
so black and white that there's no room
for the grisaille.
(c) jim hill (07-10-10)
