Florence Turns Orange As I Stare At the David

I don’t even notice I’m bleeding. The sun takes form in my eyes, or so it seems to me, when I stare longingly into the hard figure for which I was named. I do so even as crowds bumble to life around me and dawn breaks. The uneven stone pavement remains beautiful in its overuse — beautiful in its timelessness and its perseverance, in its perennial spirit and its location.

 Pupils eclipse coffee irises as eyes slowly pan over the figure like light streaming in from an opening door. Marble like supple skin, a statue delicate and robust — from the small creases on its fingers to its carefully crafted nose and lips. An imaginary line follows its silhouette from the tips of its toes curving gracefully to its uppermost lock of hair. What appears now is at the pinnacle of it all — the pinnacle of beauty, the pinnacle of creation, the pinnacle of art. 

That is what my spirit was born to be — my matter and my essence, and, in a way, my presence and absence. But how can something born live up to something created? 

As I sweat blood, I realize I’m beautiful too. Even the blood flowing down my temple is beautiful, as it becomes one with the unique geometry of my face. As that crimson droplet travels down my neck and chest, my torso, thigh, calf and the arch of my foot, it leaves a pale mark that becomes my detailed silhouette — the essence, at a glance, of what I am.