The Painting

He was unlike anything I’d seen before. Passion poured from his eyes and brow, but his fingers refused to submit to wild wants.


That was all I saw of him; his further form refusing to reveal itself, leaving both he and I in the white– of the canvas that is. I don’t know whether he quit me or I him. It was too real, too vivid– like a candle that burns from both ends. Perhaps the we did each other in.


At last, after many moons and frustrated sighs, we quit. He took me off of his stand and laid me in the corner, bound forever to stare into the white nothingness of his sheets.


I’d like to see that passion once more. I know it’s still there; the pacing, the growls for more wine. He’s out there. And I’m still here. Mayhaps next time I can make him happy.


Prompt: The Painting was without title, and obviously unfinished, but something about it seemed so real.


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