MoMA

We pondered the clocks in the Persistence of Memory
between walls satisfied with paintings.
Among sculptures suspended from ceilings
fountains sprayed drops of sunshine
splattering rainbows on silhouettes.

We were more inspired by each other.
Alone and invisible in a sea of strangers,
we were lost in a sculpture garden of secrets
where the sun still shone promise on our love,
reflecting our imaginary iridescence.

Bathed in a room of glowing yellow light
Eliasson turned us into monochrome
blending our various skin shades to one.
Ascending the crowded escalator your kiss
conceived more than God could on any Sistine ceiling.

There were a thousand faces to witness us
though their judgment, scorn and misunderstanding
were reserved for the paintings while
we blended into the Garden of Earthly Delights.

Between this gallery and the tallest buildings,
in a city of insomnia, we would have lost ourselves
and abandoned our old life to become
remembered as the incarnation of beauty,
invisible in the refuge of the museum.

The harmony of our lips,
the symmetry of our souls,
the enigma of our embrace,
the elegance of our portrait all
were painted on eternity’s canvas.

They will preserve us in a sculpture
and our juxtaposition will bewilder.
The post-modernists will bow and pray
to the paradox of our existence.

My masterpiece, I’ll discover you again,
amongst the Water Lilies and Starry Night,
waiting for my return to the museum,
waiting for our chance to be more
than just a simple work of art.