When Juan Luna painted the portrait of a lady
Did he pour his entire being into the canvas?
Did the image of the woman looking back at him with such agony and yearning turned his insides into a beautiful mess?
Did he desire more than anything to hold her?
And just hold her
until the whole universe cease to exist?
If he did,
why did he kill her?
A woman he once loved so dearly it reflected into his art—making her immortal;
so does his revenge,
so does his hurt.
I want to ask him if he, after his tragedy, held the paint brush once more—
remembering how it once felt to immortalize his love into a masterpiece.
And uttering words of apologies
for he cannot,
even just a stroke,
any longer make love to the canvas.
YOU ARE READING
Skyless constellations
Poetrya compilation of anything; the things that my mind and pen nudges me to put into paper. read if you have time to spare
