This room lies strewn with paintings. Some show an eye, the colour of the waves. Some show a hand, with delicate fingers and softest skin. A hundred paintings of faces and arms and legs, of toes and ankles, lie in clusters around this cold room. They are well drawn, yet at the same time they look so empty that they could be anybody or nobody.

There is nothing more than paint.

The eyes look down on me, from their places on the walls, and yet see nothing. The ears hear nothing. The lips, glistening, inviting, will kiss me no more. They are cold, souless, empty.

I cannot draw her smell in the mornings, or her sigh upon waking. I cannot draw her insecurities, or her stubbornness. I cannot even draw her happiness.

But if I could draw every part of her. If I could draw her a million times. If I could make it so real, so believable, that, just for a second I thought it was her. If I could bring her back, just once, then I would do it all again, a thousand times over.

My love is gone, I am alone.

My paintings are all i have.

I suppose everything dies. In time my paintings will be forgotten. In time i will die and be forgotten to.

I wonder if anyone will paint me.

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