thephoenixwars's blogs

Studies (080412)

August 21, 2012

The ceiling fan squeaks softly with every lazy revolution as I sit in the corner of this darkened room. It’s so much nicer when things are dark. Every sensation gains new importance once sight is taken from you. I tap my bare foot against the rough wooden floor of my studio, the place that has given birth to countless portraits beautiful and horrific. The darkness pulses with the cacophony of eternal silence. Smoke wafts along the invisible eddy of this place. The cherry of my cigarette is the only light in this stifling place, but it casts enough light to show the edge of my newest abused canvas.

Perhaps that is the most apt description for what you are, my darling painting, a testament to sweet regret. I know what I will find as I rise from my perch and approach you. I flick my lighter on and peer at you. My teeth grind as I look at you and everything you represent. I look at you and know all of the things you have done. Your eyes tell it all, you know, and yet they obscure everything. I look at them and see the history that lies just behind your shaded orbs. I watch you, a dull ache settling in my gut as the image of your slick body pressing and sliding against those of others comes to the forefront of my mind. I hover my fingers above your lips, soft and expressionless in your frame. Those truthful lies you spoke once still ring in my ears, absurd in hindsight. My own lips tingle sweetly at the memory of the heat yours raised sliding across exposed, quivering skin.

I take another drag, watching the tip flare with the inhalation. The lighter in my hand starts to grow hot but I ignore it. You, my darling painting, are what I am interested in at the moment. The flame lights your face, shadows falling away from the light source I created for you. I let my eyes slide around your frame, holding the light to each of the small studies I have attached to you. Green eyes and brown eyes and hazel eyes and gold eyes and grey eyes all peer back at me, all carrying their own specific memories. Each set has helped me in your creation, my darling painting, each guiding my strokes in the lights and darks that helped bring you to fruition.

Another drag, another exhalation, and I cannot resist the tactile urge any longer. I slide my fingertips along the curve of your lips, cold and smooth to the touch. I lean close, watching you blink as I blink, your light source flickering as mine flickers. I press my hand against the cold reflection, holding your mirrored gaze as our flame slowly fades and sputters out.