is the quiet to be gentle with you
warmth to sun my skin against
condensation pearling my glass
oily with booze
and a place where my face
needs no arranging
you have a memory of me
uncoloured by the anxious pall
or at least you act like you do
I have a memory of you before
you straightened your hair
you got a divorce
your shit burnt down
you got all those tattoos
you disappeared overseas
I thought you were beautiful then
it hurt my eyes a little to look at you
because rarely had I seen someone
so specifically you
to me – you were smarter
prettier funnier kinder wilder
than I was ever going to be
you were better coloured in
inside and out of your lines
never a watercolour photocopy tracing
always the new deal
sculptural and realised
taking up all that space
solid as a monument
testament to the hard chisel work of living
as you have lived
God, Eleanor, who is that about?… So very good. Thanks again for sharing your talented words
thanks elissa – can’t name names but I’m hoping to see them this weekend with my whole heart on fire… :)
Gorgeous piece.