last i dreamed that you were a renaissance portrait. you were hanging under a fluorescent light in the museum.
a small red sign told me i couldn't touch you. your cheeks were glossed with gold dust and your lips curled delicate as roses.
i came to see you every day on my lunch break. i came to see you every single day, to watch the way the unnatural light bounced off your gold-dusted face and to wonder who you were, who you'd loved and who'd loved you, the way your voice sounded, the way it would feel to run my hands through your hair.
one day, no one is around, and i reach out to trace the fragile lines of your cheekbones. you are only paint and canvas. an alarm sounds somewhere in the distance.
i am holding you in my arms, you are kissing me with reckless abandon. i feel you laugh into my stunned mouth and i feel your body pressing into mine. it is warm and soft, so much more than paint and canvas.
i smile first into your eyes, and then down at my gold-stained hands.