Fuelling the fire within,
He began conserving each inch of her skin
As if he was the one accountable
For putting together her anatomic curves,
As if every effort was well thought of,
And many hours spent with unsharpened pencils
Making her sketch.
Not that he didn’t try it before,
He had contemplated and often wondered
If he would ever design something great,
So marvelous and dynamic that
it would represent perfection.
He tried achieving this, even to the point
where his failed attempts would make him despise the art form
that he was, making his strokes ever less meaningful.
At times, he made himself entirely engrossed
in the admirations of buildings around,
edifices, skyscrapers and towers that touched the clouds.
At night he would close his eyes
and picture a bare acreage.
Men moving back and forth
under his commands,
drenched in sweat with heat pouring onto
them like a swarm of bees.
He didn’t know, but did romanticize
what perfection looked like.
So she came to him like an idea,
an exaltation that knocked on his front door.
She became the one that made him see through
the perfection in the beauty of a lavender.
She tore down her confined walls for him,
walls that were invisible behind
the otherwise closed closet.
And then he acknowledged,
that perfection is how she made him love her.
He took her as her favorite design,
a structure that he would always love to build
with closed eyes at nights
the blueprints of which isn’t devoid of
breathtaking interiors, wondrous hallways.
And thus, he found satisfaction in the
new concept of perfection that he had started to believe in.
Image Courtesy: www.pixabay.com