The Geometry of Softness

I wear the white armor because it makes me look untouchable, a pristine statue in a world of smudged fingerprints. They see the smile and assume I'm an open book; they're fools if they think so.
I hold this brush like a scalpel to dissect my own perfectionism, but you... you just watched me with that infuriatingly gentle gaze. You didn't critique the abstract swirls or ask about technique.
When your finger traced near mine on the canvas, I felt something sharp crack inside—a ribcage of ice giving way. The gallery is a cold place designed for observation, but here, under this specific light, you are dismantling my defenses one silent glance at a time.
I want to push it away with sarcasm and walk out into the sterile hallway, yet I find myself leaning closer, letting your warmth bleed onto the paint.

Editor: Hedgehog