Painting by Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

​
Imagine I am to paint you now,
at half past four in the morning.

The jumping light from the streetlamps
outside your windows
discovers nothing.

You're dreaming on your
new bed, in the new bedroom
of your extravagant new apartment,

which I have heard you tell others,
to be the sum
of all your previous residences.

If I am to paint you,
the painting will be devoid of
background, devoid of foreground,
devoid of all detail.

I do not know the shape
and texture of your bed mattress.
Nor the colours of the walls,
the pattern on the floorboards.

In this imaginary picture
that I cannot paint,
your chocolate body
lies awkwardly on the centre of
an empty white canvas

and I (with a face
that you barely know)
curl around your waist.