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Dried Portraits.

 

Dried Portraits. 

Ulises Vargas 

January 26, 2026. 


Today’s soulmate 

is not today’s wife. 


Today’s crush 

is tomorrow’s filth. 


Till disillusionment  

do us part. 


To that gorgeous muse of min:,

I painted you nicely last night—

all warm and tender—

and I etched the most calligraphic sign. 


To that same bitch monster:

you wasted my time. 

I spent hours lost— 

so lost—

in your portrait. 


So many hours deluded, 

believing your beauty epitomous. 

So many hours encapsulated 

in the enamored picture 

sat in the disgraced shadows 

of my mind’s gallery. 


To that muse subsequent:

you are no different. 

I am no different. 


Pose, and stay still. 

This won’t take long. 

Shine that smile for me. 


That’s it. 

Just like that. 


You are my everything. 

You are my magnum opus. 


Aren’t you so pretty? 

Aren’t you so easy? 


Well, that’s that. 

Wasn’t that fun? 


I think I loved you—

I think. 


No more need be said. 


Get out. 

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