Myth of innocence

He felt invisible in the museum,
as if he melted into the landscapes,
one of the faceless
in an Impressionist frame.
For a few hours, he would float,
lighter inside the thick walls
and careful lighting
than when navigating the real world.
In the museum, he saw rooms in cities
he had never been, stoic flowers,
and faces of women he felt he knew.
He felt innocence creep back in,
from someplace he once knew
and would rediscover every time
he walked into the museum,
where there was no judgement or worry,
just color and light and history.