Today in the museum, they hung you next to me

as my blackberry eyes stained the fingertips of those

who caressed over my cracked face, like a porcelain doll

that had once been released from a small child’s grasp

and sewn together with a father’s love. Today in the

museum, they hung you next to me, a dehydrated carcass whose

life. Had been sucked out of his very veins. Look how your sunken

eyes, like a ship drowned at sea, and hallowed cheeks, dark enough

to cast a shadow, highlighted the wrinkles that branded my once perfect

skin, my once virgin canvas. Why did phantom hands crucify you next

to me, not by the Degas, Rodin, Rivera, or Kahlo? It’s not as if their hands

meant from them to be as beautiful as me. Once. As beautiful as me. But

despite your acute spine nestled by blue cascades, your stringed figure still sang

to me. Your fingers whispered to her and she moaned in response with the flick

of every joint. I cannot hear these notes, nor hear your words, but I can imagine how

beautiful they would sound, and I, with my pearl reflecting your reflection,

watch for a sound as stained fingertips caress over my blackberry eyes//


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