Woman
Who was she? 'Woman,' that was all she was ever known by. He watched his little dancer - watched her rub her knee, fasten her stockings, rub her back. She inspired him to greater heights. Her ecstasy and the sheer pleasure she got from dancing drew him to her time and again. He loved his little dancer. She was flawless in his eyes. The beauty of each movement, every position of her art, he knew it must all be captured. He became obsessed with her body, her energy. He was infatuated with her form. She inspired the artist within him.
He watched her now, taking a bath - felt a sudden intense urge to capture her sensuous body. Being around her he thought sometimes his soul would explode with her beauty. She captivated him. The desire to posess her was overwhelming and yet she remained always at a distance. So he drew her, sculpted her - trying desperately to fill his life with her.
The sponge clenched in her hand dripped soap into the tub. That dripping of water, the swish every time she moved, were the only sounds. She never spoke. He had only heard her speak once, her enigmatic presence heightened by her low, husky voice. When he first heard it he knew - knew he had to posess her. It had been after a moving performance, he had been invited backstage to meet the dancers and she caught his eye. Off from the rest, she practiced alone while they socialized, chattering away incessantly. The ballet mistress brought her over. She was only seventeen at the time, still shy and ackward around strangers. She whispered her name; her voice caressed and tortured his tormented soul.
Her essence permeated his very being. When critics reviled her, said she was haughty and inelegant, he lie in bed for weeks sobbing uncontrollably. He refused to see anyone - especially her. He mourned the injustice he'd done her. He wanted only for everyone to love her as he did. To see her as he did.
He was working intently now, the wax soft and yellow in his hands. He worked it gently, caressing it as he would her - were he ever allowed to touch her. The image of her in the bath, legs crossed, toes clenched on the side of the tub as she massaged a foot, the blood on her toes washing away leaving the tub with a mysterious pink color was almost too much for him to bear. He was capturing it all in the wax. Capturing her soul in the wax.
He watched her now, taking a bath - felt a sudden intense urge to capture her sensuous body. Being around her he thought sometimes his soul would explode with her beauty. She captivated him. The desire to posess her was overwhelming and yet she remained always at a distance. So he drew her, sculpted her - trying desperately to fill his life with her.
The sponge clenched in her hand dripped soap into the tub. That dripping of water, the swish every time she moved, were the only sounds. She never spoke. He had only heard her speak once, her enigmatic presence heightened by her low, husky voice. When he first heard it he knew - knew he had to posess her. It had been after a moving performance, he had been invited backstage to meet the dancers and she caught his eye. Off from the rest, she practiced alone while they socialized, chattering away incessantly. The ballet mistress brought her over. She was only seventeen at the time, still shy and ackward around strangers. She whispered her name; her voice caressed and tortured his tormented soul.
Her essence permeated his very being. When critics reviled her, said she was haughty and inelegant, he lie in bed for weeks sobbing uncontrollably. He refused to see anyone - especially her. He mourned the injustice he'd done her. He wanted only for everyone to love her as he did. To see her as he did.
He was working intently now, the wax soft and yellow in his hands. He worked it gently, caressing it as he would her - were he ever allowed to touch her. The image of her in the bath, legs crossed, toes clenched on the side of the tub as she massaged a foot, the blood on her toes washing away leaving the tub with a mysterious pink color was almost too much for him to bear. He was capturing it all in the wax. Capturing her soul in the wax.