Kris' Portrait
The Twelve Short Stories of Exomas
The curve of her lips looked perfect as I slid my finger across the canvas board. Her eyes, staring directly into mine -- an everlasting hold. Her hair, smoothed to the side of her shoulders. She looks almost too real.
When I held you in my arms that night and we locked lips, I thought it was love. Your hands clenching your knees from nervousness. Crescent moon eyelids, closed to shade me from reading your thoughts. But you kissed me back.
Just as I fell from the height of a thousand stories for a love like ours -- it ended.
The last remnant of you is this portrait. The thick lines of lead slowly marking the curves of your face. My mind runs wild with the thought of you, only making it more difficult to illustrate anything else. These hands of mine have become frail from your touch.
Blank... Blank.. Blank. Nothing but blank.
In reality, this canvas is empty. I can't draw your portrait. I won't.
I can only imagine the way I could trace you onto this empty board. The feel of the pencil scraping the surface that would give me shivers. My hands gracefully swaying as I pull it back and forth, shading every shadow into your face.
Etching your image into my heart. My mind. My soul.
Sitting here, staring at this blank canvas, won't do me any good. The fading daylight tells me that there isn't any time for that anymore. Even though there is not a single trace of art on this board, I don't mind.
I just hope that you don't either.
Hurriedly, before the time comes to an end, I pick up the canvas and tuck it safely beneath my arm as I walk out of the studio.
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