My Portrait

When we adapt and compromise in relationship, who do we become?

If only,

I could find a crack in that canvas,

Pry it apart

Peer through,

And see the painting

I know must be there,

The painting that has to be more real

Than the one in the gallery,

The one someone painted,

That deft piece of forgery

That everyone passes by.



If only

I could find a crack

In that canvas

On which my portrait was painted,

Then maybe someone,

Wandering through the gallery,

Would stop and take notice.