Your Only Art Gensis Siverio
Every time, as the music overhead melodizes, I stand with the paintbrush in hand and struggle to find the right hues to decorate yet another white, empty canvas. What pigment will work best to color my loneliness? To varnish my solitude? To, with shades, recount my sorrow? My wondering hand seems to break off its hinges and lively, laudably, longingly paint only you. Your golden eyes, those dimpled cheeks, and vulpine muzzle. Each stroke another fraction of you I miss. Close to completing its paragon, my now free palm never forgets to add a generous gash pervaded with crimson red and dismembered skin. A laceration resembling the one you left on my soul, my vivacity, my fervor, my heart. All carved by your razor-sharp callousness, your only art. 18
