The Portrait
There was something in his eyes that reminded me of you. A sadness. It was just a painting, they said.
But to me, it spoke louder than even they who stood in front me did.
Maybe it’s because it’s the last thing I have of you. The last gift you got for me before leaving.
Maybe it’s all in my head, sentiments from a soul drowning in an ocean of expectations.
They say a picture is worth ten thousand words, but this is worth more than just words to me. And albeit it tells our story, it does so with just five. Love so tried and long suffered that every moment with you was bliss. I hated that I couldn’t be with you always. I hated that your job took you away from me.
Then you got me the gift. A gift, sent inherently to placate the long months of your being away.
A gift that became much more.
I curse the day, and may it go down in the black Book of times, the day that robbed me of you.
It’s been three years, and Mom has greyed faster in the whole of those years, than she would have in ten years to come. She worries about me almost as much as I worry about her, but sadly, none of us can put either out of each’s misery.
She says I need to give love another chance, and has taken the burden upon herself to search out one for me.
She found Jude, a Mother’s choice, she calls him.
He’s a gentle soul, not quite capable of hurt. I like him, but a light-year distance exists in comparison to my feelings for you.
Last night, he was here again. And I think I took another piece of his heart.
I know it isn’t fair what I keep doing to him, but I can’t help it either. How can I be with another man when my heart is with you?
How can I be close to another man, when I need only close my eyes to see you?
Most times I don’t even need to. I sit, to see you staring at me from the picture. I see you in him, the gentleness and foreboding of our love.
I go to bed each night hoping for a miracle, to hear of your return, or miraculous survival, even though the forensic scientist has ruled out any hope for one.
I don’t think I can bear this any longer, but try as I may, it keeps drawing me back to you. Is it a message that I hold on, or a sign that I let go?
Is my obsession getting the best part of me, and leaving me to make bad decisions? I don’t know what to do any longer.
Each night, I write this unending book, in the hope that your arrival would bring it to a close.
That I’d wake up one fine morning to see you by my side, amazed, but glad to see that it was all a nightmare.
That we’d both turn, and stare at the portrait, tracing its finesse with adoration, imagining a story that’d we would have no idea of.
Or better, they’d would tell of a happier story, and not reflect in their eyes- A love that cannot be.
This entry was inspired by @mikepm74 Fresh Five Writing Contest, and the prompt was this beautiful image by @katalinaooma.
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