Site hosted by Angelfire.com: Build your free website today!
READ THE
[] Copyright.
[] Poetry.
[] Shorts.
[] Novel.
[] One-liners.
[] Back to start.

It probably could have been more about the art.


Art is a thing of fascination, archives of fleeting emotions and scattering touches. As photographers, as writers, as the dreamer of dreams Mya and Aly felt it imperative to recall all of the passion they could find. Artistically, the body was already a work of art. Pragmatically, it was still merely a blank canvas. The first night seven pictures were taken. None particularly shocking and wonderful. In fact, the first night, continuing seemed like a bad idea. But the last photo...it was genius. There was Mya, naked back to the camera in a short skirt with a calligraphied sentence scralled on her shoulder. The black pen jumped out against her olive flesh, "Only the good angels got wings." Mya's hunched shoulders gave off her vulnerability, but her head was held high, regardless, in an act of trust. Piece by piece their entire night was uncovered in that picture so they returned the next night and the next and the next and every possible night after.

Eventually, they needed more of a challenge; making a beautiful woman look good was hardly work. They wrote themes on bits of paper and drew one out of a hat each session. Once, it was nature and Aly ended up standing, one leg in a basin arms covered her naked breasts. "The moonlight and the sun fight for the chance to shine on you," was printed neatly on the curve of her abs. Handcuffs, however, sang a different tune. The pictures contain harsh reds and purples and thick, glazed eyes...they screamed of lust and sex and sin. The first picture that night was of the tears in Mya's eyes and, after, it was easy to convince themselves the kisses were just to calm each other down.

Later, they said it wasn't sexual at all; naked bodies were simply easier to paint. Plus, it was easier to be inspired with someone right there in your face whispering in your ear and licking the thin contour of a jutting collar bone. Later, they claimed the touching, the kissing, the sweaty press of naked flesh on naked flesh were all for art's sake; the words looked so much prettier all smudged and distorted with backwards prints from another, familiar body.

They made the claims they had to in order to defend a seperation between their art and their true life together. But anyone with eyes could see it shining in their photos. Numerous prints of hands and legs and breasts with creamy swirls of black ink proclaiming the emotions that run away only with lovers.

Later, they would uncap their felt pens and kiss and touch and explore every inch of the olive and milky hues that were each other. They would lick and suck and trace each shade and contour and try to discover how many times the words, "I love you" would fit on two humans bodies...and they will mean it each of the 712 times.