brushstrokes.

I stood silently, staring at this portrait of the Earl of Rochester at the National Portrait Gallery. I looked in the black eyes and thought of his words:

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.

I thought of living in the 18th century, so far away. I suppose I can see the charm in those eyes, the charm that led him to the contraction of syphilis and his death at the age of 36. I was thinking that if he said those words to me, I'd cave right in. After reading his satires, I couldn't help but think of Rochester as the ultimate bad boy. I would have liked him in high school, always pulling some sort of witty remark on our teachers. They wouldn't be able to say anything because he'd just be too cute.

I was three feet away from the portrait and slowly stepping closer to it. It hung about 8 feet up on the wall, so I had to crane my neck to look up at it and examine the line of his lips. Those lips that would have spoken those words. They're almost feminine in a way, which I suppose gives him that cavalier Leonardo DiCaprio charm.

I'm not sure where the memory of that afternoon came from. But I know that I felt a certain connection with that portrait that resonated with me. I guess it solidifies just how much of a nerd I really am: I have a poetic crush on John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester.