Part Two of Life of an Artist.
When you told me you thought me to be beautiful, I began to do things I normally did not do. I explored parts of myself with you that I did not explore normally. I watched myself through your eyes, and I saw parts of me I did not normally see. A slope of my shoulder was exposed, and instead of being bashful, I felt like it was a delicious opportunity to show skin.
You watched me with shy eyes, and though you did not say much, not much needed to be said. You told me I had beautiful skin and beautiful lips and lovely eyes. You lingered a hand through my hair and called it liquid gold, you sifted your fingers through it and stared at me in wonder.
I remember that feeling. The feeling of adoration and hunger in your eyes. The way your fingers explored my body like it was a work of architecture, and you, with holy hands, holy fingers, holy body, touched my temples and steeples, you explored my catacombs and confessionals. I was the cathedral your fingers had drawn into being. Make no mistake: I felt holy in that given moment.
I stirred in your grasp, and now, something inside of me stirs, so I paint to settle the stirring. Instead of buying a stick that can tell me yes or no, positive or negative, I dip my brush into ink and scratch the brush along the surface of stiff, white pages. I try not to imagine you while I paint because then, my fingers tremble.
You never were an artist, but when you held a violin in your grasp, you made music. Haunting, enchanting music.
I fell in love with your violin and the way your fingers danced across its body. Your fingers were thin and lithe. They moved as if of their own accord, but you brought beauty and music into a world of darkness.
Though my paintings and sketches had color, my life was dark until I met you.