Touching wet paint

Touching wet paint

She did not love you.
She painted you.
You were bleached and darkened, covered,
Brightened, altered, masked
Behind a thin insubstantial layer
Of what she desired to see.
She saw an exquisite work of art,
Her dream's handiwork was a masterpiece,
It was not true.
I know. I have painted before,
With imagination, skill and precision.
But not honesty.
Now I see beauty before me.
Beauty is truth, isn't it?
This person IS you. It must be.
Pure, naked, real you. Please.
I'm terrified of making the connection
Between my hand and yours.
Terrified of the layers of the person I'm in love with
Flaking away.
When I take your hand in mine,
Will I feel the heat of when I look at what I pray I've not painted,
Or will I touch wet paint?