Opus

I do not paint

Years ago, in a shadowy place between
a child and a woman, I had painted a
butterfly. I painted it with the colours of
the sky rising out of a black and white book leaving
silver stars and mémoires behind, I thought
I knew what it meant. It wasn't that great, to be
honest. I could paint better landscapes, white on
violet snow, forests on fire, monoliths rising out of the
ground like the Devil's fingertips, even a ship just before
it sunk. Candles in a dark room. Napoleon's portrait, and
an old man with a cigarette who could have been my
grandfather. I don't paint anymore, the colours have
faded into the opaque air heavy and citrus sweet on my
neck and my poor blue skin has forgotten how to
breathe. All that remains, is a lonely penciled sketch, the
lines already fading and charcoal dust on my dead and
bloodless fingers.