Your memory hangs on the wall of my mind like a prized work of art. In those moments, when lost in a day dreaming daze, I drift through the halls of my gallery and find you there. Each emotion painting a different perspective of your canvas in constant flux, an abstract view that changes with the phases of the moon. But I can’t look away. The boldness of the hue leaving me in awe, yet the blood streaks down from my bleeding heart, reminiscent of the agony of the wound that’s still open. I lock it in the room in the corner of my thoughts, like a *******, a glutton for the pain that the sight of you brings. I can’t bring myself to take it down, despite the pleas from my tired soul. I cling to that moment captured in time, in foolish hope that one day you will return. Return to acknowledge all the love, pain, and destruction that created these masterpieces in my collection. If only you could see the passion in every brush stroke. The subtle way the pigment whispers the truth of my intentions. Maybe then, you too will be in awe. Maybe then, you’d want to stay.