Friday, April 1, 2011
Breakfast is not the same without her, most of all I miss her coffee cup. It was a deep brown, an allusion to her connection with the earth and the arts and all of humanity, in some strange way. It was grounded, and yet it was brittle; it was thin and delicate and well formed. It was her, there was so much of her in that cup. The way the coffee filled it, plentiful and deep with a bitter, sugar-less black; a tone that resonated against the milk white of her translucent face, the vermilion of her mature lips, the royal blue of those peeping veins, the fire tone of her wicked hair. She was a painting, the type that they put behind a protective glass with a sign that reads, 'Do Not Touch'. They should have warned me, too. In a foolish dream I thought the glass was to save the painting from dirty fingers like mine; I didn't realize it was to save naive fingers like mine from getting cut.