The Art Gallery

In an art gallery,

Alone.

I stand, crestfallen, with a spotlight

On one painting.

It was after hours.

The painting had enchanting colors

And depicted the future

You and I.

The paint began to move

And slowly drip like

Melting ice, and teardrop down like

Candlewax.

It started running over the brass

Frame to the wall and down to

The floor, leaving everything

We left unsaid, regret, and hope,

Streaked in its trail.

Standing in a puddle of paint lonely,

I turned off the spotlight

On what could have been,

But with paint on my shoes.