You’re so classic, almost baroque.

Must be those strands, it’s been a while since you let them be; coarse between my fingers, opulent mahogany curl, streaked with silver anguish, and the burnt butter of your skin. Yes, I know what the harshness of grey skies did to our mane.

You’re such a moth ball now, although I still like you in a suit, when you give off the aroma of a cool cathedral, enclosed, quiet. Time’s debris floats in subdued streams of sunlight, filtered through the stained glass.

You’re a piece of sacred art, a haloed saint, looking up the elaborate vault, drama in your eyes, always. A dark background is all you have suffered, your orbe the only light in the portrait, and your exquisite hands, my very own Greco.

You’re a grand organ for sure, a monumentalist, and it’s sort of embarrassing, but I stay and listen. Dark eyes can hide under ¬†extremist brows and yet, gentle light infuses the swivelling colonnades of our lives.

Sound might mellow  your whisper to low confidence, and rise then triumphant, booming like the cinema. Colours march out the grand pipes in patterns, repetitive, like you opening the door for me since we first met and, I daresay, forever.

Jubilees outside my window, the morning mist. Thunderstorms through the late afternoon, it’s all you, a prelude, so tocata, a fugue.