O, I look up and you’re there, my love,
in the dark of the night,
in the air.
I can almost touch you.
You’re a hovering portrait,
framed, suspended above me.
I see you through shimmering purple in the darkness;
and, as I reach up toward you,
the purple light slowly parts like a curtain,
and the air parts like
cold, cold water
upon my touch.
Now, with a clear pathway between us,
I can see your face
more clearly now, my love.
Your perfect face in my waking dream
in this cold, dreadful night.
Your dark, luxuriant hair pouring like fragrant wine
over your soft shoulders,
…while I struggle to sustain the flapping tired wings of this dream…
Reach out to me, love,
from the hovering living oil painting
where you live, in the air.
Please, let us briefly touch,
at least our fingertips,
for a royal fleeting moment —
Stretch out your hand farther,
your true woman’s hand,
the hand of a daughter, an artist, a lover.
I can nearly touch, but not quite…
With tear stains on your cheeks,
and blue paint smeared on your hands,
and the blood of your passion carved like physiological ice
onto your canvases,
and the fire of sorrow unable to touch
the softness or the color or the invincible geometry
of your red and eternal woman’s mouth.
Neither can the flames
of scorching blue sadness
touch even a speck of the wide open seas
of your arms, your back, your woman’s frame.
If I could successfully reach your soft hand,
I would place it on my heart and say,
“Mend this and I can give it to you.”
And then, perhaps, hot liquid light would drip from my chest onto your arm,
and you would turn around away from me in the painting where you live,
and I would see your bare back,
and, with a paintbrush, you would make on the canvass
a picture of yourself as if you were seen from behind,
with your bare back and your right hand raised up
and holding a wooden music box that had been smashed in as if by a sledgehammer
so that the varnished wood is broken and splintered
and the metal handle is dangling loosely
and hot liquid light is dripping down the sides of the music box
and a gray curl of mist rests atop the music box
there in your gentle hand.
Even if I cannot comfort your calloused gorgeous hands,
won’t you meet me with your eyes, love,
upon my eyes,
and see me,
as I see you,
and together —
even through looking, truly, at one another’s souls
for only an instant —
we will surely not be burned by the terrible blue fire
and we will survive this night.
“To: My Love, The Spirit in the Air” by Bob Rich