When anything is done in the name of love, no matter how small or big, shouting it to the world from the roof or making it intimate...a bond is made, like a missing link that will unite two lenghts of broken chains.
In the name of love anyone can paint a dream...

She came from another epoch, the one before any war, the one where the river wasn’t furious going down to the sea’s shore, but calmly, almost languorously in its laziness kind of slithered around valleys and knolls, silently with now and then a bashful wave will noisily lick a boat berth wooden post.
She sat there, letting her eyes to float over the waters, letting the river to take her eyes on a trip toward to that mysterious nonexistent door which only can be opened with the key of tender wants.
Inside her mind was an empty canvas asking to be filled, hoping that the blinding emptiness could hold something else, perhaps a yearning, or a dream, or a ghost portrait of something forbidden and yet, more powerful than an avalanche of stones going unstoppable down, like an erotic wish.
She decided to paint his portrait, with the softest brushes that could almost imitate her fingertips caress upon his face, exploring every line, every smile track, even the memory of tears long gone…the brushes will travel, kissing that canvas like her lips wished to be kissing his, from the delicate rose tones to the explosion of red.
The eyes she thought, couldn’t be but unfathomable twin wells, down there the purest water where lies will fall and drown but from where a sincere tear will escape to cool the fever of her pain; inscrutable eyes, hard and yet velvet like, showing the stillness of a well used dagger, eyes than can see through from eons back, before man confronted the first snake.
As the portrait was taking form, she felt inside the gestating feeling of going forward, more boldly, to had strokes there that could easily identify her as the painter and him the dream hold for so long inside the hope’s jewel-box like the light of a faraway star that will never be there.
The brushes smeared the palette mixing colors and traveled the distance from her heart to the most smaller recesses where intimacy was waiting its turn to be part of the emotional rainbow twisting itself after passing through thousand prisms separating and putting together again love, lust, promises, pain and tenderness with the flair of a painter that doesn’t care who knew or believed to know, because she was painting her secret, and it nobody would ever guess, not even the portrayed.
But she knew, she knew that, when finished, she couldn’t show that portrait to anyone, not even to herself and discover that behind the portrait was only a empty space, a want, the ghost of a wish, the punishment by absence for the audacity sin of open her heart to an all invading feeling of loving and be loved, and the imposed penitence of knowing, deeply and with regret that no matter how beautiful parallel lines are their coming together there, far away, beyond the horizon, is just an optical illusion.
She felt warm salty tears rolling down her cheeks and the brush trembled a little painting in the portrait a tear in those saddened eyes before grabbing a big flat brush and with white paint let the canvas back to its previous emptiness.
The portrait under?…her secret.
And his.