I once fell in love with an artist who wanted to immortalize my frail self.
In his strokes, I was lost.

Every day, we were in his gallery and I'd sit in a position, smiling while he traced his brush on a canvas. In diverse palettes would he bury me.

And when I did die, I did not die. I was alive, stuck in an artist's painting.

I never left his gallery not until his death. I was sold at an exorbitant price and at night, I step out of my painting.

My voice could be heard in the stairs and walls. I would sing for my beloved to come stroke me but the one who immortalized me forgot to immortalize himself.

Now I am stuck, with no where to go but the painting.

Every decade, I find a new home, but never my lover.

©Whyte Queen