Some loves were never meant to be taken off the wall, the canvas inspected for discolorations and lumps— the sins of the painter hastily covered up with valiant tans and blues.
you were always my favorite first draft if it’s any consolation; I must have painted over you a thousand times. eventually I got it right eventually
though first I had to peel back all the layers covering you up. so I scoured you head to toe with sandpaper; washed your hair with turpentine; melted away your clothes with a hairdryer as hot as hellfire until all that was left was your bold mouth, and charcoal curves so primal and ferocious.
the original of Lisa wasn’t as clear as I’d remembered its anatomy all wrong, like a dream interrupted— how I ended up so far afield from the concept I’m still not sure
so forgive me, goddess for doing your beauty such injustice; forgive me, goddess I should have sculpted you instead. my hands then could have translated what the mind could not and I could fix you and fix you and fix you until I finally got it right
but of course we both know some things are better left untouched.