To know Helen

The fingers that trace my nose
and feel their way across my face
have seen so much
without seeing,
heard so many voices
without ever knowing the sweetness of sound.
The nothing intrigues me
as I sit here,
happy to see a smile on your face,
while I wonder what it's like to be in your head
and you wonder what it's like to be in mine.
I want to show you the world around us,
to point out the stars in the sky
and the fish in the water,
to tell you to listen closely 
to the birds overhead
but you don't know the joys of color.
The sounds of laughter to you are unfamiliar,
so I must show you my world with touch,
the roughness of a pine cone 
and the soft fibers of my paintbrush
as I guide the bittersweet in your expression
to the edges of your lips.
I open my eyes
to find yours looking back at me.
"Hello,"
I whisper,
even though I know you cannot hear me
encased in paint,
depth within the flat surface I work with.
For someone who could never know the world the way I do
you are remarkably prominent in my life
and I see something inside you
that I feel within myself.
Maybe I should stop talking to a painting however.
It seems a habit that may end in a more unfortunate of ways.