IF I WERE A PAINTER

If I were a painter I'd paint memories. I'd paint the places in my dreams. I'd paint us in cafe's, shores, top of the hills, trains and holding hands flaneuring through city veins. I'd paint apathy, Raison D'etre,  and anacampserote. And return to gone away. I'd paint how reality ruins life.

If I were a painter, I'll paint us in a way Greek mythology meant us to be. One creature with four arms, four legs and one head with two faces and let Zeus be afraid. On that canvas of mine we'll be one being and won't ever need to look for another half or for anything else. I'd paint flowers to stay forever in that bloom of that colour. I'd paint music and angels you call me after. I'd paint that poem in your mouth I left the first night I kissed you and every breath of yours following that moment.

If I were a painter I'll paint the sound of your laughter. I'd paint other people naked, crying, ugly. Goosebumps. I'd paint waiting. I'd paint an auto-portrait of each bone of mine in its search for wings. I'd paint talk of the day. If I were a painter it would come easy and it would be good.

I'd use brushes, sponges, attires, curtains, fingers, palms, back of my hands, souls of my feet, knees and my hair to paint.  I'd use black and white, all shades of grey, all the colours, blood, olive oil and oil. Ash. Ink. Spices and copper just to depict the deeper hunger of sufficiency of excess, of condemning yearn to express, need to capture it all.

If I were a painter I'd paint out of fear of forgetting.

Stroke after stroke. Passionately Forever.