NEPENTHE

The Artist

I ask you to sketch a portrait of mine,

You, Whose paintings had always charmed me,

Agree immediately.

You pick out a pale, blank sheet of paper,

And a nice, sleek pencil and commence your magic.

With easy, confident strokes, an art in itself,

And quick twists and little touch ups,

You sketch me.

I giggle, watching your intensity as you work,

The frown in your forehead, as you concentrate,

And you say, 'Sit still!',

And I giggle harder.

This is when I see with new eyes,

The way you look at me.

'Done!', you say, with a moonstruck smile,

And I nearly run to you to see what you had drawn,

And it stuns me.

A carbon replica of me on the page,

So similar and yet so dissimilar.

The contours of my face traced with sharp black lines,

My jaw pointed, my eyes cool,

My arms angular and frightening.

I look perfect. And hideous.

All the sharp lines hurt.

I pretend to smile and I say, 'It's beautiful.'

But you interrupt, 'It's not finished yet,'

And you with your thumb blur out the hard, unforgiving lines,

Soften the cruel angles, sprinkle graphite blots on,

My perfect portrait skin.

The contours of my face dissipate over the page.

You look at me with your molten eyes,

And say, 'You are unsketchable,

Your essence can't be tied down between,

The wafer-thin petals of paper,

Or metal bars of well-defined lines.

You are too fluid to be captured in a portrait, I am sorry.'

I look up, my stormy eyes meet yours,

And I fall in love.

Thank you for reading!!!!