The old cliche’: The most accurate watch in the world is one that has stopped: it is accurate twice a day. Can the same be said of love? The most enduring love is one that…
Poe ain’t got nothin’ on this guy. Can ya dig it? Less then two weeks left to enter our contest. This entry is painted in Dorian’s color. (Mr. Gray will see you now.)
by Judge Katz
I was afraid I would forget her face. I was afraid my persona would decay. I was afraid that time would weather our attachment. Indeed, age: the monstrous thought—born in nonexistence, forever carried in stony arms of fear. Senescence, I told her, would only act as a harbinger of havoc. Neatly furling the corners of her mouth, she smiled. The light beyond the ocular veil, the lines stemming from years of laughter: she couldn’t see it—but I could.
I passively protested from the moment I fell in love with her, derailing every flash of reverence or awe. Knowing we were in danger, I did whatever I could to prevent inexorable tragedy—a tragedy that only perseveration could beget.
I was worried over minutiae; whether I could give her the attention she deserved, whether I could give her the worship she demanded…
On the other hand, who was I to deny a goddess? To resist the woman whom I cared for so greatly? Between my art major and her Ph.D., it appeared that circumstance had ordained our relationship taboo. Regardless, I did not comprehend the mistake of concession.
It became a hopeless battle; it was something I knew I could not win. Things were crumbling faster than I could restore them. Her canthus wrinkled at every twitch. Her flaxen hair fought silvery sickness in futility. Her skin blistered from sunbathing in the courtyard. Undone by the abstract overlord of existence, His iron fist squeezed the life out of my adoration and affection.
I suffered in silence, inwardly grimacing at every turn. I solicited as much goodwill as I could, enough to keep her submerged under the placating waters of blissful ignorance.
My fears from all those years ago resurfaced with a slow but reckoning vengeance. Quickly, in ancient sagacity, I realized what I had refused to make explicit: my love was immortal—but she was not.
I had to act. I knew if I waited any longer, our love would be lost for good.
To do this, I needed her still.
It didn’t matter once I finished the painting. Upon the wall, she rests in suspended beauty for as long as my eyes can observe. After all, I prefer to admire her without getting my shovel.