The Woman in Blue

The woman in blue sat uncomfortable, a finger drumming on her lap. Her dress billowed down like a visible wind and the expression in her eyes was restless. As he dipped his brush in the oils, he felt pulled to her like a gardener to the earth.

He saw her as she floated along the lilac bushes, taking the dark stem between thumb and forefinger and lowering them to her nose. He heard her humming Vive La Rose and watched her shadow as it soaked the ground. He noticed how her hair seemed to be night itself and her hands cirrus clouds. Maybe he admired her then.

He dreamt of holding her close and drinking her in, as roots drink. He whispered prayers to her in his sleep. Her pearls dangled like moons in his eyes and her skin beckoned him with a light of its own. Maybe he admired her then.

He had propped her there like a marble statue or a man-made jewel and hoped her bird-wing collarbones could fly, that her jungle thatch eyes could be free.

Maybe he thought he could capture her.

(inspired by this painting:

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