magenta

I attended his first art exhibition

Not to buy of course but to enjoy

His beautiful gifts before they

Retired from view into the homes

Of the the rich and famous.

I am his woman he is too bohemian

To give our relationship a name.

But his visions of beauty flow

From the tip of a sable brush

Onto to both his canvas and my heart.

He arrives and makes an entrance

The patrons applaud him

He seems to ignore them and

Taking from his pocket his brush

Adds a touch of magenta to a flower

In his still life painting.

For the same reason

I licked the tip of my finger

And moved a lock of his beautiful hair

From his forehead,

Not that it was untidy really

But more a sign that he still

Belonged to me even as the fame

Was taking him.

And that a simple touch

Was the purest form of love.