What are you telling me, Frida?
Is listening to Mexican ballads in a shack
by the sea everything I need to know of love?
Is it as simple as following a dream, searching
for the just right word or thumbing
through the colors on my palette,
even if my brush strokes are crippled and lame ?
What is the story you have for me, Frida,
with those pink roses tucked behind your ear,
and your lipstick the color of fire?
What is it you're trying to say? Is it sufficient
to sit on a bench and watch the sky,
the people passing before me like clouds?
Is it enough to browse through a bookstore by the ocean,
listening to the whispered wisdom of ancient pens?
I set down the book, Frida, and there you are,
staring down at me from above, dark eyes
penetrating my soul, memories of Diego
and The Blue House swirling through
your memories like jewels. Do you want
to speak to me today, Frida, or am I just
imagining this, this look you give me,
that half-smile teasing along the edge of your mouth,
a message on your lips meant only for artists?
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