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She talked about him like he was a work of art.
“This mark here, it’s was made to quickly” she’d say while examining his shoulders. Peppering her words with soft kisses he couldn’t feel
She talked about him like he was someone’s master piece. “Clearly they’re not used to working with this medium.”
She talked about him, but rarely with him.
He told her he loved her, she told him he belonged in a gallery.
“And the stone they choose” she’d click her tongue, her fingers grazing the edge where his leg had broken off as a fledgling “not exactly the toughest material, how did they expect you to hold up in a storm?” She shook her head before pressing a kiss between his shoulders. “Whoever made you, didn’t know what they were doing.”
She talked about him, like he was a work of art.