Her fingers were so soft.
Her words were legit and
surreal. Her smile on the
canvas was lively that
flowers are fake and
scentless. Every night, she drew
a portrait of him. Until the colours
turned grey. Like the doomed
sky intertwined with the
black moon, her overcast heart
told me everything
-that love is just a man who
-that love is just a man who
enslaves the truth for a
fragile woman.
And the love from that man
is what encircles her tenderly
drowning her into an
intangible mess of emotions
dipped in the hues of paints
dragging her down below into the pit of her own disaster.
I saw how
I saw how
her deep brown eyes looked further into the distance
as her white t-shirt is smeared in multiple spectrum of colours
paintbrushes scattered around the personal studio
and in front, yet another masterpiece created from a personal
image of her mind of him
i realized how maybe
in art, she wished,
he'd come back again by her side.
Fatahul Nizam / Fatihah Ashhadi
Facebook
24 VI 2013
*the first duet
