Some mornings the sky is an impressionist painting steeped in violaceous streaks of anxious soft light. I pull over to the shoulder to snap a picture with my phone but the result never quite captures. By the time I get to work the colors have dissolved in the warm yellow orange glow. The sun continues to rise. The day arrives. A painting is an artifact of loss. Museums compendiums of once flickering flames. We swim through the wisps of spiraling smoke. In the darkness we reach for the wicks that are still warm. From memory the artists move their brushes across the canvas. Even the haystacks are dreams. Every painting is a picture of something now gone. Imagination becomes the only thing that feels real. To paint is to remember something that once was. To love is to love someone who’s always leaving. In the fading evening light Monet was just painting (haystacks). Before the dawn burns away its purple sashes I was just loving (you).