A look. A touch.
She has seen him in a thousand dreams.
He is nothing without her. He is the creamy white of empty space.
She has given everything up for him. Her family are half-remembered as megapixels on a digital-camera. Her ribs jut against her anaemic skin like frigid waves. Her friends detest what he has done to her, yet they’ve never met him.
He aspires for nothing more than to see her. A look. A touch. He longs to be complete.
She no longer sees the carpet of unpaid bills, or the remnants ready-meals caked in E-numbers. She ignores the flecks of existence; crimson, cerulean, amber and teal. She sees only his face. Her aspiration is but a dream that lives in limited dimensions.
He dances in the fabric of life without her. What else can he do?
She travels the world in the beat of a heart. She twirls in the sunlight. She creeps in the shade of unseen trees. She glides across the reflections of the shallow pond.
He lives in a house he will never see. Now he feels her. Now he will forever see her. Unblinking until one of them ceases to be.
She stands back.
He is complete.
Her work complete.
She rests paintbrush on easel.
Metropolitan Dreams 