He’d been a child when the painting had appeared.
He imagined they might meet, as
His mum cursing him for dragging his feet.
He was a teen when he next glanced that way,
Then the portrait was wearing its age,
But he just craved more flesh to be on display.
As a man he barely noticed,
The face which had captivated him once,
He was too busy doing the business lunch.
Now he sat and looked at her in peace,
Perhaps she was no longer as beautiful,
But she was still art and his love of her would never cease.