YOU light up my life wearing sassy, saffron paint smeared over your skin, embellished with tattoos. Purging illumination, rays splash out from your center; like a light bulb enveloped in your frame.
You rub off on me. Just a brush against your frame leaves my hands stained with your ink. You ooze authenticity. You crumble in my fingertips; I could melt in your shadow.
You’re fickle. You’re charged up. You’re plugged in and connected, but like a teasing Sahara breeze that comes and goes, your shine flickers. Sometimes it’s extinguished completely. I don’t even recognize you. You’re dark and everything is obsolete. The room disappears and I’m left regretting placing such emphasis on your role in my space.
My Moroccan lamp reminds me of visiting Fez. I’ve had my eye on a lamp like that since I first visited Granada, an intensely Arabic influenced little slice of heaven, six years ago. Wandering through the cluster of shops in the Medina in Fez only heightened my love for Moroccan style.
Back in Sevilla, a shop called ‘Casa del Té catches my eye and it’s here that I haggle over the price, just like in the Medina, and then insist on paying in Dirham (Moroccan currency) which I had in my wallet left over from my trip.
My prize piece was worth the search, even if it short circuits on me more often than not.