a painting hangs at the foot of his bed

not many would call it a painting

none would know what the whitewash hid 

                                                 except for him  and the artist

she painted her portrait 

all her portraitures were quietly  subtly   her

he thought it was one of her finest efforts

he told her so

she said she hadnt captured what she wanted

she grew visibly upset

Maybe trying to console her he offered you captured what the portraiture wanted you to

his characters often did what they wantedsaid what they wanted coerced him to follow their lead

she smiled sadly That’s different, baby, writing is not a visual art.

I don’t like it.

              abruptly she lathered it with whitewashlathered it before he could interruptstop her take the painting for himself

when she finishedexhausted by her furious brushstrokes she left it to dry on the easel

as it driedhe checked it throughout the day the portrait was stubborn as was she adamant hints of her eyes peered through the whitewash the cocked defiant attitude of her headsoftly submerged an ethereal shadowher hair woven and cluttered with wildflowers and stars  vague   opaque

it was all he needed

                     hints  suggestions   possibilities    nothing was impossible

he tortured her and others with Im-possible

she wanted to paint over it

she was pissed thats what she said when he hid it from her

Ill buy you another canvas

I don’t want another canvas. I want my painting.

You concede it is a painting

I want it.

Im not giving it to you

I want it. 

Or I’m leaving.

1052,  Monday,  23  12. 19

1134,  Monday,  11  5. 20