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.