My Duchess
She once asked me why I had never painted her, pale dress and lips rose red, framed by misty sunlight green
For a multitude of others had tripped and floated in my studio, spinning, laughing and posing like they were young again
So many, and yet so few that were real, pretending that I was the one, eyes fluttering like debutantes first seen
Canvases coloured with what they wanted all to see, saccharine coated with what I had to add, sunshine instead of rain.
I never painted her because she was the one, for to use brushstrokes would diminish her tangible reality
Not only was she real, but she existed, showing sides that diamonds could never possess
The others were loose with their rampant affections, hard as rusty nails, pretending to have perpetual fragility
But, ah, my love was true, is true, will always be true, and I miss her so much, my lovely pure and ever sweet Duchess.
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