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She tried to grasp on ghostly dreams, dreams that seemed unbelievably too far for her toes to stretch for or for her arms to reach for.
Her hair whispered as it followed the breeze, and her tears cooled and her skin hurt.
Her shadows followed her, haunting the pants that escaped her as he stroked the pastels on a blank canvas.
She was his muse.
He was aspiring.
And the figures that narrowed the room, and the clothes that tattered and spread themselves on the floor like a palm over the world’s globes, made the room itself.
The shadows that were casted on the planes of her face were shaded in with the darkest peaches.
He’d grow frustrated, she’d grow humbled by his anger.
And the figures that were considered art were echoes of her own helpless soul searching for an unproclaimed purpose.
She was so lost, and she seeked comfort in someone far more lost than she was.
She felt naked.
Even with the clothing that she wrapped herself in, his intuitive eyes seemed to undress her.
It wasn’t the way she wanted.
He didn’t reciprocate the feelings.
He saw art, he saw angular features, he saw flaws. He was so troubled, she loved it.
He saw a way to distress himself and find escape from the voices in his head and the work that haunted him.
The skeletal bone that jutted out when she cried out in agony because the darkness consumed her.
She wasn’t special.
He wasn’t looking.
The colors blurred, the lines faded, the shadows lurked, the voices whimpered.
He didn’t want his art to mean multiple things, he didn’t want it to be open for interpretation.
He wanted it to be palpably bare faced.
Something that was as comprehensive as her oppression when she sobbed in the corners.
She was just his muse.
He was just an artist, and he was growing tired of it.