N’oublie pas

 
For her

She couldn’t let it go. Every song, every smell, every silence still trembled with the ghost of it.
So she turned her bathroom into a chapel, her mirror into scripture.
Every morning: Don’t forget.
Every night: Don’t forget.
As if remembering was safer than moving on. As if obsession was better than emptiness.
The way forgetting feels like betrayal.
When I found the scene, the room still smelled of her perfume, the record was still spinning, and her reflection had burned itself into the glass.
 
For me

I painted this because I couldn’t stop watching her.
Not when she walked. Not when she laughed. Especially not when she stood in front of the mirror, half-lit, etching herself into me like fire on paper.

Her body was ritual.
Every curve, every angle, a language that needed no words.
Her back, her hips, the way her skin caught the light, it was opium.
Not just desire, but addiction.
She wasn’t asking to be seen.
She simply existed, and the world bent around her.
I painted this because I refuse to forget.
Because beauty like that doesn’t fade quietly, it brands you.
Her reflection burned into me, and I knew: even if I lost her, even if time erased everything else, this moment had to survive.
That’s what this canvas is.
Not memory. Not portrait.
Obsession, preserved in oil.