Minimalism Reunion

I passed you by today
thinking I would never find you bearded.
But there you were
hidden behind dark bristles,
something you picked up in Italy
two moons ago.
You failed to see me
in your efforts to jump start
your swagger.

I closed my eyes and imagined your fingers
black with charcoal
drawing sensuous s-curves
on fine linen paper,
your jeans worn white in places,
smudged black in others.

I imagined her -
head tilted forward,
long tresses falling like heavy silken curtains
across soft, creamy shoulders
past smooth, round breasts.
You always loved long hair.

I imagined you slowly drawing
the lengthy line of her thigh
pausing to wonder how it would taste
to be intimate with her,
how the warm mass of her would feel
against your body.

With each scratching stroke of charcoal on paper
I imagined you savoring your anticipation
lingering over such artistic foreplay
exploring her all over
before ever touching her.

Watching the pavement as I walked
I could remember the feeling
of your rough hand stained
burnt umber
alizarin crimson
cadmium red
closing over mine
while I clutched my own charcoal tightly,
too tight for your taste.

You drew with me
my back growing soft with warmth
as we swayed together,
lines spreading like wild vines.
We separated, gasping,
sticky with sweat,
soft charcoal crumbled in my hand
as the magic was lost.

An artist was too much for you -
better to trap your lovers on paper,
wrap them up in neat bundles,
cap them into tubes suitable for mailing,
zipper them up in leather portfolios
which can be carried down the street
as you carry them now.

You turned to gaze in a store window
and I passed you by
reminding myself to tell you sometime
how little your new beard hides.