Outnumbered

Outnumbered You showed me how outnumbered I was, how obligation interferes with beauty. I had nothing except Da Vinci and pigeons in the park, a place for your weary head on my painted lap. I was the brevity of your dreams, a love of life you only sustained when I was around. You left my garden on your fathers wishes, became a lawyer, a very busy person that anonymously purchased my art. You only breathed again when your very gifted banker left you to find himself. Visiting the old company gardens again, you found our heart engraved into a yellow wood tree, looked for me at exhibitions and art directories. I was gone. You showed me how outnumbered we were. I undressed every painting of mine that morning, saw the naked truth of inevitability that afternoon, dressed myself to look like them that evening. I lost you, art and the silly life of dreams the following months. It has been twelve years and I send you a link to a poem, one measly poem that opens up a warehouse of more. I missed you.