You never appreciated such
until he touched you and told you that if you were in a room full of people, you would be too delicate to take pictures of. He rubbed your arms like you were an oil painting. He kissed your cheeked and it felt like a brush swiping a canvas. But you forgot that you were the painting hanging on the wall. You took pictures of him every chance you got, and he never returned. You looked at him like he wasn't for sale. You saw him as priceless, something hanging in France. You lost your worth. The museum closed on you and the only thing you could feel was black splattering through your life. But you're still a prize, he left but you're still worth more than a few sweet words. You lost yourself in white paint and now you feel like a grey blotch. The lights are off and you're still hanging in the Louvre. The museum may close and the people may leave, but a masterpiece is a masterpiece even when nobody's looking. Hes a sketch, an idea, a rough draft. You, you are a work of art.