Ruins Of A Masterpiece.

This is how it goes,

You’re in front of me and everything looks perfect. I want to capture this moment. 
I take too much time with that paint brush. 
Carefully choosing the colours, all of my favourite ones. 

Dipping the brush into yellow, and gliding the warmth across the canvas.

Saturating into red, I let it slither over the vacant background. Filling it with love, slipping over the warm yellow, too. 

The brush is drenched again and again.

Too much time and patience is spent painting this perfect picture. 

I step back and take a look at it.

Such a pretty picture is created, with all the radiant shades. 

Glowing with the yellows of sun and warmth, ripened apples with love, tinted a little with the blues of your clouds, dreams and moods.

I am puffed up with pride, feeling like Picasso.

Suddenly, you come forward, and plunge it underwater.

The paint rises, it is dilapidated. 

Everything falls apart. 

Are you kidding me? It is no longer perfect.

And, I realize it had never been.

Who am I fooling? I was never an artist, anyway.

Subsequently, you go out of the door as I crumble, looking numbly at the ravages.

I guess, somewhere deep in my empty chest, I always knew that the memories will fade and the paint will peel.

Still, I tried my hand at it.

That was a glorifying masterpiece.

Yes. It was. Exemplary.

While now this is just one of the many empty sheets of paper, with no potential and desire to be filled.

I look down at my hands, they are no longer covered with the colours that you were. 

No longer stained with the blotches of that impeccable wonder.

But, you. You’ll forever be a mess of yellows, reds and blues,

smeared across the blank wall of my mind.

And maybe, 

It is meant to be like this only.

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