The sculptor.

The lines on your face mapped the road to my heaven.

Clay blended with the holy water of passion, I drew your face with utmost devotion. It took days and nights of sit and struggle, but the value of work was much more greater. I couldn’t care less.

To finally feel you, I could barter every other possession treasurable or not. I have always worshiped you in my heart, and now my worthless fingers will learn the true experience of touch and adoration—they will memorize what my heart had did years ago.

That is, if you’d please allow.

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13 thoughts on “The sculptor.

  1. Pingback: Saint. | Ria

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