In an Affair, the Brush Barely Touches the Canvas

At dawn,

before breakfast,

before the indulgence, the words, and the aftermath

I needed the truth.

That slippery serpent that chokes and discards.

You smiled thinly,

“Perceive what you will,” you said, “I need to shower.”

He was wealthy, and I was a pair of dark glasses you wore occasionally.

He purchased, and I shopped.

A light burns, and a light’s shadow blends.

Color, texture, and shape describe a work of art.

In a relationship,

the foreground is devoured, and the background is lyrical.

In an affair,

the brush barely touches the canvas, and other narratives become possibilities.

Naked and obedient,

you are borrowed like fine art exhibited from gallery to gallery.

Gran Sasso, Italy, became a fist to the chest

as the clouds turned dark,

the heavy rains started, while your scent lingered

on the sheets and in my thoughts.

Fine glass

is never used to secure.

It is to be admired, handled, and then put away.

If dropped, by chance or purpose,

a momentary visual experience

is created

before the chards are swept into a heap

and then discarded.

You were cold and self-absorbed

when you hurried out the door.

I leaned back on the bedroom chair

tapped the tips of my fingers together

and eventually closed my eyes.

Excuses were a credit I believed I deserved.

Yet I understood

how optimism

usually morphs into a sad smile.

You are an illusionist

and your carefully crafted illusion

makes the truth

an uncertainty that chimes

silently and deadly.

Your note

had no inhibitions.

It stood there propped against an empty wine glass.

Your handwriting was graceful, stylish, and to the point.

“Forever was never on my mind.”

Philip received his Master of Arts in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five poetry books, three novels and two plays. He has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.