A Painting In The Museum

It's fading away quickly,

I'm trying to remember every little detail possible before it's completely gone from the tracts of my hippocampus unless my brain thinks it's important to store for a little longer than now,

It's like a painting,

A painting in the museum,

With old, rich wood,

Polished in gold,

But it's moving,

The contents of the painting,

That includes you and me,

And letters scrawled up like conversations,

We both are dissecting amongst each other,

You're calm as usual,

Talking softly but your eyes away from mine,

And I'm frantic to find clarity,

Looking at you, holding your cheek as you rest your face on it,

Endearing but distant at the same time,

Fading, floating and finalising something,

It's fading quickly,

Not letting me grasp the theme of our conversation.

But it feels warm,

The whole dream,

With a black curtain of space,

And your and my face with reds and hints of white,

It's just like a painting in the museum,

Interactive and mesmerised.