I pressed my face against
the cold glass. Sleep shadowing
the back of my mind as I squinted
into a darkened room
that hid the painting I longed to see.
Muted blues and greens swirled
to form flowers without petals
and rusting buckets filled
with holes. Each dripping
colored oil onto the hardwood floor.
My fingers tapped on the clear
surface, my gaze drifting
to the locked door behind
which a trickling stream
could be heard. Pastels brushed
on with water flowed from frames
corralling the oil into a tight circle.
The colors swirled, mixed to form
a dark grey. Their movements
settled, shapeless and picture-less.
Merely a blob pooled on the hardwood.
Then a creak came from the floorboards.
They fell away, drinking oil
and water.
As the boards closed,
and the paintings hung blank
I turned from the grey
room, dragging my feet
through the atrium. Each
step echoed against the linoleum.
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