The Artist

~~

It was Paris I remember
So very long ago.
Many springtime’s have passed by.
We stopped on the bridge
over the seine
I was so young.
The scenery was unnoticed
All I could think about
was the corn yellow of your hair
And your eyes
as blue as a summer sky.
I desired you so much
I wanted to tear your dress off
and empty myself into you.
Instead I painted you naked
Lay on my sofa in the tiny studio
With soft cool northern light.
All the sexual tension
flowing through the tip
of my brushes like electricity.
I ached for you as you posed
So desirable so sexual so feminine.
Then when it was completed
I think it was the best art
I ever did before or since.
You came to me then
and we made love.
The bells of Notre Dame
Chiming to our rhythm.
Then the thunderstorm
Rolling thunder outside
As I exploded inside.
God I loved you.
I have lost you now
I still paint in Montmartre
I am as poor as ever.
The other day
A rich tourist offered me
A fortune to buy
that painting of you.
But I will starve
before I sell it.
On dark sleepless nights
In my old age.
It is all I have left of you.