MASTERPIECE

I was an ordinary slab of rock—hardened and aged—with jagged ends and uneven features. I was flawed and nothing special, nothing but a mere testament to the cycles of nature and a witness to the conspiracies of the universe. 

Until his hands found me. 

His fingers gently treaded along my surface as if I were something that would not wound him, as if my edges were not sharp enough to pierce his skin and let him bleed. The warmth of his fingertips seeped beneath the coldness of my skin, and I felt an inner glow pulsate through my hollows and fill them. He held me like I was a piece of metal and not a slab of rock. To him I was as strong as steel and as rare as platinum. In his eyes I was as precious as gold and as valuable as silver. 

So I let him mold me. 

I let his hands memorize where I ended and I began. I let him shape my coarse edges into graceful contours and subtle arches. When his chisel's pointed edge chipped me too hard, he would murmur soothing words to what others would view as inanimate, and when his tools left marks on my skin, he would tell me the tale of Pygmalion and Galatea and how sculptor fell in love with his work and I would listen to his comforting voice all day as if it were a salve to numb the pain. All the while he was working, sweat gathered upon his brow and concentration masked on his face. He carved intricate details on my surface, and all the while I told myself that I was nothing special, nothing more than rock, nothing more than a torn and twisted chunk of Earth. 

Until he made me beautiful. 

Until I saw the look in his eyes that reflected one word. 

Masterpiece. 

And he loved me. 

He loved me for the rivulets of curls cascading down the curve of my back, for the fullness of my ivory bosom and for the slight arch on the spot above my navel. He loved me for my slender fingers, for my rounded hips and my carefully gilded limbs. He loved me for the fine line of my jaw, for the bridge of my nose and for the hollow of my cheeks. He loved me for the unearthly expression I wore, for the spark in my eyes and for the shape of my lips. 

He loved me for who I am, and I loved him back. 

And I was happy. 

I watched his eyes light up, two pools of burning stardust gazing at the deep recesses of my soul. I felt his lips graze my cheek and hover on the spot above my lips till his mouth meets mine and I feel so, so alive. I listened to his witty anecdotes, to his romantic ballads and snippets of poetry. I watched him rise to the heavens and soar with his dreams, and I prayed with my closed lips that he never falls. 

And he never did. 

He took me with him, parading me and telling the whole world how much he loved me. I felt extraordinary bliss, and the world was a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors that grew brighter and brighter with each passing day.  I felt as if it would never end, as if we were to last forever and surpass what lies beyond the infinity. 

But I was wrong. 

As the days passed, he grew restless, and his eyes glowed with a different light that reflected the inferno wrestling with his soul. His lips no longer spoke of my praises nor peppered my skin with kisses. Rather, he spoke of how I was too old-fashioned, too bland and too lackluster.His stories were long gone and replaced with cusses, with wails of misery and cries of pain, and when he looked at me, I knew that he no longer loved me, and I was crushed though fully intact.

He said that it would never end.

I thought it would never end.

But I was wrong. 

I watched him roll on his downward slope of dreams and wept silently for his pain. I listened to him compare me with other sculptures, and I took it all in, wanting to drive his chisel deep down my heart and end this wicked torture. I watched him fall from the heavens and land on his back, unable to get up from the madness twisting and turning his very soul. 

 Until another slab of marble came, and his hands were put to good use. 

With the same tools he used to make me, he sculpted her and made her far more beautiful than I was. He adorned her hair with pearls and seashells and carved a cloth that flowed from her shoulder to her hip. Her eyes held a luminous celestial sparkle, and her lips were curved into a perpetual smile that was meant to entice the hearts of men. Her figure was of perfect proportions, and her skin was flawless and unmarked—a manifest of how he took his time to create his new Galatea. 

I watched him bring his ideas to life. I watched the look of satisfaction cross his face, and I was moved by how he looked so happy and so beautiful. I watched the same sweat gather on his brow and transform his face into a mask of pure concentration. I watched him reclaim his dreams and begin believing again in between lines of poetry and the story of the sculptor who fell in love with his work.  I captured his face in my mind and memorized its angles, so that when he finally forgot me, I would have something to remember him by. 

And when he was finished his new art I saw the same look in his eyes that reflected one word. 

Masterpiece.