Expressed in works of ink and watercolor
of acrylic, pastel, and marble
of photographs and short films,
did every work at this auction
look like you,
the love of my life,
and my ex boyfriend
in some way or another
entwined in acts of unrestrained love.
The costs were high, but I could not let such
masterpieces go anywhere
but in a place where I could stare at it for hours.
Your thighs wrapped around his
draped tastefully in smooth oil bedsheets,
gasping looks of ecstasy in the school of John William Waterhouse,
switch to tight embraces swirling in pools of ink like your souls
were doodled out by Junji Ito.
For every masterpiece sold
he offered twice as much as me
and when he winked at you
it lit my heart like sweeping radiating watercolors.
The only envy I felt
was when he snatched away a most
uncanny reproduction of that nefarious Andy Warhol
where those stormy eyes that broke my heart
are locked on mine while
you do something rhythmic and beautiful below.
Art brings that which hides behind the veil of reality
to where we can see it for ourselves
but it is only an imitation of
all that in life that is beautiful
and that which burns our souls without warning.
The moon may be cold in its lonesome jealousy
but your fledgling love is a pair of dancing solar flares
and I am tidally locked watching from the face of sunny old Mercury.