You held my hand as we walked down the stairs leading to gallery number 1.
At that point, I fucking hated you.
You stare at those paintings like you're lost in the wonderland.
Rubbing your chin and frowning at them like a serious old man,
Maybe hoping that they will tell you what they mean when you do so.
You told me to follow you up to the second room.
The sculptures and models were mesmerising til I laid my eyes on you.
I regret that I did cause I fucking hated you.
You fed your mind with art like a dried plant thirsty for water.
Going through every single art in every corner of the room,
Maybe finding for the best piece that room could give you.
We walked our way through each gallery.
We took pictures of each other and all those amazing masterpieces.
We sat on soft white beds that were all over the museum.
Trying to ease the pain of walking too much to find the best art or the best view.
But all those moments, I fucking hated you.
I hate you.
I hate the way I look at you and all those art works.
I hate that when I walked out of that place, I couldn't remember a single art.
Because of you.
You made them look like blank canvass.
You made them look like black and white.
You made them look like nothing.
Because you are something.
No, you are everything.