The Artist's Frustration

He sat next to me,
an older man with a sketchbook,
as he always does every Friday.
And as always, he sighs,
frustrated, he says,
with his latest creation.
"I cannot capture her!"
he exclaims in broken tones.
"I cannot even get close!"
We have talked about his art,
erotic art, he claims proudly;
he loves the fact that labeling his art thus
makes other artists squirm.
There is one subject, though,
that he cannot get on paper.
He says he watches, horrified,
as his hands shake,
his pencil goes awry,
the lines refuse to form properly.
"I loved her," he whispers in sadness so deep,
I wonder how he can even walk without
his heart gushing blood from his chest.
"Her body was a temple to me;
I loved to worship there regularly," he confesses,
with a twinkle in his eye.
Then grief creases his face again.
"If only I could draw her," he sighs.
If only I could see that perfection again."
He shows me his latest attempt,
one without her face;
he mourns, "I had hoped this would help.
But it does not."
I do not know what to tell him.
I have never known a love that deep.
He pats my hand, chuckling.
"You are young yet; you will."
He gets up slowly and I am surprised an hour
    has passed.
"Do not fret; I do still have my memories -
   and perhaps that is all I should have.
What if by portraying her, I lose all -
   memories, feelings?"
he asks, and says his farewells.
I sit for a while after he leaves,
tears unaccountably pricking my lids.
To be loved like that...
a gift far more precious than any drawing.