I am sore, sad, and empty; anyone can see that. But unseen is your photo on my dresser. I take care that the scent on your shirt does not mingle with mine.
Your shoes wait patiently by the door. In the evening, when the sky is like backlit cotton, I think of you.
Hair. Body. Blue glass eyes. The art you almost were.
On some days I wish it had been different, but I cannot say I regret what I did to you. The real art was the kill, and then the restoration. Now you are part of my private collection.