I know the pieces fit

He spent two years
And half of his hard-earned
On a paint-by-numbers so intricate
He had to complete it from above special glass
That blew it up
That fattened his hand.

And he dabbed all of the blue
Smudged all of the red
And dotted green judiciously.

Til at last he downed brush,
Stood back.

And choked.

It wasn’t right.
Everything was in its right place
The textures were – to the pore –
Both unique and accurate.

But there was something in her smile.
A crookedness.

Loathe to admit his rising disappointment
He framed her regardless.

Walking home with her under his arm
He raised his head from the monotony of the pavement…

And there it was.
The final kick-in-the-balls:
A casual free-hand
Of the only face he wanted to see
Sprayed onto some disused garage.

The frame slipped.
Smashed.
And eyes and skin and hair
Bled silently into the gutter.