• Crysta

last week in love

Updated: Apr 14, 2018

The dark and recurring dream of the man who never loved me, not even the idea of me, just the idea of loving a woman. Or a piece of clay that he could fashion into the shape of a woman.


The lion, who has taken to visiting my dreams in all his steadiness, waiting, waiting, waiting, steady. Unnerving me slightly with a message that I don’t understand yet. Inevitability.


The little boy who held his cup out with shining eyes full of gratitude while his brother played an accordion to justify the silent ask.


The poet who stood in front of me, shifting weight from one foot to the other in restless rhythm.


The painter who sat, still and contemplative in a pool of sunshine, warm and graceful, elegant and refined, long and lean with skin like warm coffee kissed by honey. The beautiful eyes that laughed and smiled and played and told me of accomplishments and opinions and beliefs and dark and light and processes for art and for being in the world.

Chanel Bleu. The words of a lover long gone, in block letters across the back of my portrait, a birthday present that he finished over the course of a year, “te amo con tido mi corazon”, on repeat, repeat, repeat in my head.


The waiter who sang quiet songs of longing with equal parts urgency and hope. The common ground of Leonard Cohen.


The time I spent alone. Opening, tending, healing. In love.



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