She was an artist
so beautiful
far beyond the likes of me.
I was in love with her
Only from a respectful
distance of course.
She said to me
You have beautiful hands.
I would love to paint them.
I modelled for her
Her delicate brush
Painted my hands on canvas.
They look so empty I said.
They are empty she said
They are just like that .
I realized she was right
They were empty
They did not hold her hands
Or touch her cheek
Or feel the softness of her skin
They never had
and they never would.
But for a single moment
as she painted them.
I felt she was mine to hold.
Just mine.
But the only thing the picture
Showed in my hands
Was a hard grip on cold reality.