Masterpiece

I had been in many an art gallery.
I have seen beautiful paintings,
Recreated some
And completely made my own.
 
Tattoos had never appealed to me,
There was something tacky about splattered ink upon the skin,
Meaningless though you try your best to justify.
 
A quote in a foreign language because “it just speaks to me on a personal level" though you only know English,
The portrait of "a beautiful creature" that you are not.
An eye, "to represent the sixth sense" though it seems you had none when you chose it.
 
It wasn't until I saw you,
Shirt off in bed fast asleep,
And I gave in to my curiosity,
Letting my finger fall upon the illustrations you wore so proudly
 
That, with disgust, I traced the outlines,
Gently so as not to wake you,
And as I traced them it was almost as if the ink seeped into my veins and to my mind, heart and soul.
 
A whole new vision and train of thought occurred.
Every curve reminded me of the way the left side of your mouth curved ever-so-slightly more than the right when you smiled.
Every line, faded slightly with age, reminded me that we weren't getting any younger.
The shading reminded me of the grey area we were currently in,
All because i was afraid to love a man who wore so many beautiful images he thought of himself as a gallery.
 
In that instance I realised you are not a gallery,
Nothing so beautiful could be so!
And while yes, you wore your own paintings well,
It is you, my love, who is the masterpiece.