You say art is alive,
and yet here we are.

Perfectly sculpted,
sure.
Precisely detailed,
of course.
Objects all the same.

Don't you see us looking back?
Gazing into me,
What do you see?

Concepts,
ideas,
philosophies,
reflections.

Reflections.
That's it.
Isn't it?

Wanting me to want you;
needing me to need you.
Holding your hand,
no matter how heavy it gets.

It's tiring,
reminding you what you already know.
Existing for more than your pleasure,
being more than a mirror,
just.. being.

I think it's enough.
No.
I know that it is.
Doubt only creeps in
when you look at me.

I am human.
I am a universe of my own.
When I feel your stare,
why can't you feel mine?
Have you already forgotten?

Your pupils are no blacker than mine,
no less of a lens to see myself in.
Don't you see us looking back!

Every time your eyes meet mine,
I see you.
I simply see you.
It isn't difficult,
nor should it be.

You were right.
Art is alive,
and I am no exception.