— the artist and his recovering muse

 

She fell for him at full force.
But after the fall comes the wreckage.
He did not once glance at the caution tape around the area he had once held so dear.

 

One day, a person she had never known knocked on her door clutching something red in his fist.
Do not throw away something so beautiful, he told her.
When he left, she had one piece of her heart back.

 

He was an artist.
She was anything but a blank canvas.
He wanted to see the colors glide across her once more.
The black in her mind convinced him that a mosaic would suffice.

 

He could not heal her on his own.
He searched throughout the city and found what was left of the girl he had come to love.
She sat in his car and looked out the window covered by fog.
She learned that fog is temporary.

 

Every night, he would return with a familiar red piece.
Artwork is never beyond repair, he would remind her.
Every night, she would set that piece back into place.

 

He did not love her for her brokenness.
She did not see him as a savior.
He helped her live again.
She made him a part of her life.

 

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