TITLE: The Eye of the Deer
Bright blue eyes of the deer, each and every hair brown, the fear; this was the old man’s fascination, his muse. The brush frayed with use, he painted every detail with delicacy, with passion, as if it was his last. The deer stood in a small clearing of the forest, it stood staring at the artist. He admired his work, enchanted by its siren-like whispers:
Do it again. Throw me away so to just paint me once more. Put your love into me. Make me feel alive again. Let the canvas breathe in the paint.
Make my eyes like those of your lover’s, because I am your lover, and you are mine. We will dance the waltz of creation together, hand in hand. Pretend to hold me, my old man, my creator, dance with me. Can you feel me? Hold my waist and I’ll hold your neck. The piano cascading like a river, like your tears when you paint me.
I stand in a small clearing of the forest, I stare at you my lover, but you already know this, you have made and remade me thousands of times, for so many years. You wake up and paint, you eat then you paint, you barely sleep my man, you should sleep more. You should take care of yourself, but also don’t. Never stop, paint me till you die. When you sleep, when you eat, when you go outside, you know I long for you. You can hear me call for you, I cry for you, and the paint smears my man, I hate it when it smears. Never leave me. Without you I am but a canvas, but a moment in time. Never leave. Do you promise?
The old man sits in his cabin, lost in thought, and as the first sunlight rises, he sways in his rocking chair. Blue eyes of the deer, each and every hair brown, the fear, this was my fascination, but as you already know, first comes the stare, then comes the gun.