Lydia has been visiting me everyday now.
Ever since she figured out
that I've been broken for a long time,
she wanted to help me heal.
The dead garden that was once there
slowly had flowers blossom.
Adding color to something
that was extremely dull.
All because of
the day I first saw her.
Today, she took me to Gallery 819
because she wanted me to relate
to another artwork.
"Look at this one Evan,"
she pointed as we stood
in front of Monet's The Manneporte,
"Unlike the fisherman from Homer's work,
you're being rescued."
She was right.
The waves,
that were my issues,
were below,
while she brought me over the concrete of a
small rock formation.
If she remembered that day we stood by
Homer's work,
then does she remember the day
our eyes first met?
YOU ARE READING
Aesthetic
Short StoryEvan is not sure if its the art or her that takes his breath away. Highest Rank: #135 in Poetry; #604 in Short Story
