Echo

I loved her

the first time

our eyes touched.

.

First contact

was alight, the validation

and the infatuation

the artist

.

communicated with such little

substance was remarkable.

.

The emotions communicated

to me

flowed naturally.

.

She had a way

of saying

all the right things.

.

Thoughts and feelings

which kept me staying

a little bit longer

each night.

.

Gazing at this marvelous piece

that felt so familiar

but just different enough,

to keep my vision fixed.

.

In retrospect,

It was like she wasn't a painting

but a person,

.

who had become trapped

in someone else's creation.

.

The work itself,

its a sad painting.

Dark, terrifying,

yet still beautiful.

.

Eventually I realize,

I will never gain intimacy

with this thing, it will always

allude my understanding

and heart.

.

I will never find

what feels missing

about the imagery

in the picture.

.

The scenes keep pulling

me in. Familiar

but different enough.

.

I feel parts of me

in the painting. Overtime,

I become less

and the painting more.

.

I keep hoping

that if only I continue

to stare

into the painting,

.

I would see some hint

the artist left of redemption,

.

or salvation for myself.

Or anyone else even.

But I never find it.

So I keep staring,

transfixed.

.

Until I become

the painting.