The painting of her


His love,
was something she wasn't used to.

She was always busy
carrying out her role on the movie set,
eyes shiny with flecks of gold,
natural dimples like sugar across her face
soft curls and velvety skin,

while life was vibrant on the outside,
it seemed to be dead within.

One day he strolled in,
she turned her head, caught his gaze, and beamed
his heart suddenly went patter--patter
my god... she's the one
he rushed back to his studio
and watched the paint strokes form her figure each time
seated beside the window, underneath the starry night sky,
so... this is what love feels like.

But when he handed her the rose
she pricked her fingers and bled,

when he embraced her with his warmth
she was as cold as icy jewelry,

when he gazed at her with longing
she continued to smile at the camera.

And so, he painted the last masterpiece
signed it with his love, and vanished

She thought:
I'm cold within
and everything is colorless,
I laugh although I cry inside

I saw him come along
and I thought he might have been the one,
with the gold through his hair
the warmth in his smile,
the paint on his fingertips

but in the masterpieces painted,
he fell in love with
someone who doesn't exist
and thought it was me...

and I can only so much
pretend to be something that I'm not.

So now he's gone, gone to pursue someone
like the one in his painting
for a man, a painting of a woman
can never be enough....

well then, I guess I might as well
just be a painting.

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