Tezos

Ζωγράφιζε με το πρωινό στο δέρμα της

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tz1VHekC8LCYMXhkByM6p71RZQGdMweyUdaw

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}} Astypalea, April 19 — Morning (His Entry) She didn’t notice me at first. The light was soft, early, just beginning to stretch across the terrace floor. The sound of the village was still somewhere in the distance—quiet goats, a rooster that couldn’t quite commit, the low buzz of the sea waking up. She was already there, kneeling before her canvas, naked except for streaks of paint—blue on her calf, yellow near her shoulder, a perfect green smudge above her hip like someone had touched her too gently and left color behind. She wasn’t trying to be beautiful. Which is exactly why she was. I stood back and watched. Her back was a brushstroke. Her breath, slow and deliberate, matched the rhythm of her hand. She had drawn something that looked like the valley we’d walked through yesterday. But now it was blooming too wildly. Too many flowers. Too many suns. Too many versions of us, walking over the same hill again and again. She was painting memory. She was painting what memory leaves out. I raised the camera. And for just a second— she turned. Not fully. Just enough to let me know: I see you seeing me. And I want you to remember me like this. Her skin held the morning like a page not yet written. And she— already halfway into the day— did not turn to speak, only to be remembered. “Even the gods could not have shaped a shoulder like hers— unless they were thinking of breaking me.” —Amaru, Poem 17 And I was broken— not in sorrow, but in the soft, irreversible way one light displaces another. ____________________________________________________________________ midjourney output with cellularautomata and custom gpt txt gif 896x1344px 7.51mb 2025

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poem

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love