Promise of the Premise

Every time a person dies,
a library burns.
- Alain de Botton
 
He observed beauty
from a distance
but never immersed in it,
never got entangled in its web.
He thought it wise
to err on the side of caution.
 
It was the season of misty mornings and fireworks.
He was drawn to the scent
of fleeting skirts and pearl earrings.
He was bowled over
by the chemical rush that hijacked his senses. 
He took the plunge–
the inevitable happened.
After two years of courtship,
she said he was not enough.
He was in pieces,
fragmented.
Pieces, 
when put back together,
didn't become a whole.

When the noises were quietened,
he retched at the stink of his grief,
he heard the stars twinkle–
like pinpricks in the eardrum. 
He witnessed the slow passing of time,
one devastating memory building on another–
of the sparkling, good old times.

Under the lights of a new, warm home,
the exhaustion wore off finally. 
He dipped the brush in reds and yellows
and pressed the bristles against the canvas.
The dance of the wet paint
dripping on the background
transported him to an afternoon
they made love
like possessed, unhinged beasts.

He was faithful to his tragedy
but was unfaithful to his memory of it.
His broken heart
spoke a new language,
its grammar, majestic,
its flow, lyrical.
He painted still life,
frozen moments,
dried flowers in vases,
sleeping cats on carpets,
women in deep gossip in the bougainvillea shade.

The tragic hero,
his transition
now complete,
arose from the gutters.
The eyes of the sunflowers
stared back at him.