John Singer Sargent

(Unfortunately, I do not remember where I found this painting, nor do I recall its title.)

By John Singer Sargent

The soft lamp of his room barely illuminates while
My boy reads in the soft shadow.
I don't mind. I steal glances.
I enjoy this time together, us
Just reading in the dim lighting
Investing in some wild and terrific secret that we ought
Not to discuss right now--
Just enjoy this time together, us.

I want to adjust the candle
To better illustrate my dreams
Perhaps make them reality.
To notice the thinly veiled streams on his hand, pale fingers
Twitch slightly, as he brings them up to turn the page
The nails of which stained a blue and black after a day.
Wish they would come up to me,
Hold me as dearly as he turns the page.

The room is dark.
That's quite alright, I'm used to it.
Shouldn't we turn on the other lamp?
No, really. I like it like this.
Fine.

I steal glances.
The light, a warm, buttery flicker
That softens the edges, blurs the lines, blurs any distinction
Between dreams and reality
That spills lazily over him, barely affording me
Any accurate observations.
It is a fluid, a watery substance that cannot be willed
Any more than its physics.

The kind of light that softens the irregularity,
Smooths the rough planes of loneliness
That, like jagged rocks painted on an empty canvas of sky,
Are only exacerbated by its obnubilating effects.

But I don't mind.
Because if he is not my boy,
I would still enjoy this time together, us.
To better illustrate my dreams.