It was raining. That day at the gallery. The palid London streets damp and grey. Like usual.
They're beautiful. The paintings. The way one stroke can stir you like poetry. You are beautiful. Like a painting. Your eyes deep and meaningful. As though there is a story behind those silent hazel rings.
It is cold, yet I am warm beside you. In the dismal London streets you are joy. You are the lighthouse and I am nearly a boat. Guiding me. Caressing me with your breath. I want you near me. Always.
But as I leave the gallery. Cold and hollow, like the streets I see before me. I must kiss you goodbye. For you are not mine. You belong to the gold frames that line the gallery. Belong with the perfect people, in their perfect pictures. And I am no one. But a passer by on the street. Peering in through a downstairs window, longing to catch a glimpse of your light.