Salon des Refusés

Swirls of color matted her brain, sticky pigments of desire that coated her very reason. Who was this man to move her so, strange and peculiar prince of tides that ebbed and flowed inside her heart with the moon age daydreams filling her eyes. There was no hope for her, drowning as she was beneath his canvas, under brushes tangling her limbs, dragging her deeper within his abstract sea.

Five degrees of inspiration, five degrees of seduction, five degrees of obsession, yet no degrees of separation would satisfy her curiosity, her need to delve deeper despite the danger to her soul and psyche. There was none left of those two, as all of it was his, claimed whether he knew or not, cared or not, willed or not. Like a moth cannot blame the flame for flickering, burning of its own accord to create its light, she could not blame him for searing her sweetly with macchiado melodies, rich with hue and harmony.

She paints for him – with words, with lips, wooing her wayward wunderkind, swaying his secretive self with sentiment and seduction. Would that he be rapt in her spell as she was so securely wrapped in his with no intent on breaking free, that she move him as he moved her.

Yet still he remains as ever a mystery yet to unfold, origami creature of multicolored parchment, delighting as well as vexing, and her loving him all the more for it.

artwork by Godo

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