She brushes
Up against me
But I am not the canvas
She seeks,
The colors I bleed
She cares not for,
If I carefully hang myself
She will not notice
The light that breaks
Upon my surface
Will not illuminate her face,
She has but a few strokes
And those she reserves
For the likes of him,
Priceless art
In the exhibit halls
Of her mind,
Spotlight
She guides
Her thoughts
Through his texture
Retrace every layer
That came before me,
I will sit empty
On this easel forgotten,
Unfinished masterpiece...

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