There are paintings on the wall
strange things that make no sense to me
tell me nothing about the world,
or about you,
just lines and colours
organised or in disarray.
You tell me there is a box in the attic
filled with scarves
and old things,
but when I open the box
all I see is a picture of you.
It’s black and white
looks like it was taken in a different era
back in the days when men wore top hats,
opened doors for a lady
and then tied her to a stove for good measure.
I throw the lid back on the box,
pick up the lemon that’s lying beside it on the table
and cut it in half with a sharp knife.
The juices flow out of it,
strong, fresh and sour,
I take a bite
and then another.
You look at me
and although you don’t say anything
I know what you’re thinking
so I put my shoes on and I run outside.
Run down the old path
and into a field of rapeseed,
the yellow flowers everywhere,
alone they are simple, ugly and rather bland,
but when one becomes a million, they are beautiful
quite the opposite of the human race
and they make the world look like those abstract paintings
that you love so much.
When I stop running I notice I’ve made a perfect crop circle,
round and simple,
like the lemon I’m still holding in my hand.
I throw it away, as far as I can.
When I get back you look at me,
‘Is everything alright?’ you ask,
I shrug my shoulders
find no way to tell you
that I am not the abstract woman you are looking for.
I am real,
am sharp and bland,
colourful and grey at the same time,
with some darkness on the side.
You smile at me,
I smile back.
You get up and kiss me on the nose,
short and to the point
your touch so soft.
‘I love you,’
Your words so simple,
and they come so easily
as if you’ve said them a thousand times before.
I turn and load the dishwasher
while I argue with myself
about the meaning of life.