I Can See You.

I can see you.

I can see you standing in one of those tiny art galleries near my office. In a red t-shirt and cargo shorts. The shadow of a beard, hair curling at the edges with the nicotine scent of your vice. 

I can see you shifting your weight onto your right leg as you look at the paintings in wonder. Interest gleams in those eyes when you see something you like.  You pick it up, those long fingers carefully tracing the edges of colours. 

I can see you turning around to ask the gallery owner if there is more like this. In places like this, you know there will be about 5 different versions of a scene. Your lips break into a wide smile, showing those shiny pearls as the man takes out the paintings. 

I can see you holding yourself back from gathering up the whole collection and running out the door. Your fingers curl into your palms as you lean forward, those eyes taking in every single detail that makes one painting different from the others. 

I can see you smile, nod and say something to the owner. 

I can see you turning to look over your shoulder at me, and ask :

"Do you think this will look good in our bedroom. "

I can.

I can only see you in my mind's eye as I sit at my desk. Only imagining what would never be.