Whole was she not to be delivered unto me
so for an elbow I wished
the elbow that was to lean upon the little table
while the jasmine tea wrapped its cumulus tendrils
around the black curls that encrypted her eyes
fragmented became the mask that I donned
to face the adversity of my unease
like a maverick muse escaped from its vermillion tube
too shy to push its way onto the artist’s palette
too insignificant to leave any mark, or the least aroma
anonymous to the world
anonymous to myself
with the personality of drying paint
next time it is to the hand I shall aspire
the master of signatures and waves of farewell
the hand capable of picking up my brush
the art of hand.