Pygmalion fell

in love with his image,
his image of her, he tells himself.
O Pygmalion! He fell hard
from his high tower, bewitched
by the power of his own creation,
his artful ruminations dwelling on cold marble
beauty. How surprised he must have been when she
first kissed him back, breathing real air from real lips and
O Pygmalion! How soft she is, now that she can kiss.

And yet how callous, she is almost
adamantine as she realizes she is finally alive
and no longer his; she is her own and she is real and she
is woman and she knows who he is in love with and it is not with
woman but with stone, and an artist alone could be so blind.
How surprised he is to realize he is Narcissus when she walks out
that heavy door leaving behind only himself to love.

But O Pygmalion, is this not the nature of art?

Author Note: This is like the fifth and hopefully final rewrite of this dumb poem. I'm sure most of you have read this before, and if you have, please don't feel obligated to review or anything. I think some knowledge of Pygmalion and Narcissus is required to understand this poem?