I might be Gioconda

I might be Gioconda;

recessed in the frame, I’m patiently waiting

                                for my da Vinci.

The crowds admire my face,

they entertain themselves with rumours,

                                   trying to get a glimpse

of my so-called living stare.

If only my eyes would indeed be alive…

Catacombs, no, heavy trenches

                 would drip on my face,

for amongst the curious and the loud that adore me

there shall never be my Creator.

Da Vinci doesn’t come to the museum anymore

And I refuse to stare with the eyes he gifted me,

                breathe with the nostrils he painted me,

                                      feel the dust clinging to my oils.

But I am grateful,

oh,

for you love me so much!

For you never lift your eyes to meet mine,

never breathe too loud,

 never turn your face into the light.

Discreetly, you review your masterpiece.

Or at least let me believe this is what it is.

That you, for my sake,

lure in the nooks and crannies,

       without taking pictures,

           without retouching your painting.

You wouldn’t allow me to memorize the sharp lines of your nose,

your every freckle,

the exact depth of your eyes,

your lips like two tectonic faults.

How I owe you for this!

What torment would it be to know and touch your halo

with every blink of the eye,

over and over.

Therefore, my loss is unknown to me,

and that dilutes it almost,

but not really,

to bearability.

My creator pities me

He is ashamed that my brush strokes recount him,

ashamed that I am behind the showcase,

ashamed that he knows me so close, so true,

yet I’m not his, him.

He sees my purgatory and,

no matter how many brushes

         he breaks on other canvases,

he can’t feel any trace of remorse.

So he does what he knows best:

he remains silent,

                      he leaves.

Under the pretext of a tormenting infatuation,

he shelters his abandonment. 

But he does not know I do not long for his picture,

but for his forging mind.

Those diluted, contrasted shadows

that gave birth to me;

in the slow, warm, silent love

the painter holds for his masterpiece

only before it is accomplished.

I am bright for I was born from shadow alone.

But I am Gioconda.

I follow stares,

             photo lenses, fingers.

Thousands of stares look like yours,

other thousands of fingers.

I could reconstitute you

anytime.

I can make idols,

I can pray to dead stone.

See, your attempt is in vain.

May you find your torture

in your own divine grace,

for you can’t feel it in the touristic violations

                                                                of your Eve.

Do you wish me to forget you?

Oh, but I haven’t even known you.

You’ve scratched your initials on my skin

and hidden your iron hot riddles

                                           in my silhouette and garments

Nevertheless, you are different.

And for your lack of parading and hosannas,

for your apparently hypocrite anonymity;

for the fact that no God ever helped you,

I respect you and I’ve loved you.

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Image Source: Anthodiaitos via Pinterest