The Sculptor's Statue

  His fingers move up and down, shaping me, dancing upon my flesh. I rest where he's propped me up, staring into his dark eyes squinted in concentration. Soon, I will be done. Soon, the deadline will come. Soon, I will be on display, saving his name in the memories of thousands as an artist, a genius- a sculptor.
  The tips of his fingers are chalky and dry, covered in the clay used to make me. I suppose I should feel embarassed, if only a little, to watch him create me and ruin himself, but I love it. I love how he'll work through the nights when the deadline closes in, love how he'll work his long thin fingers until the skin is cracked in ways mine cannot, and he moans of old age in the early mornings. To me, it is a show of his love, his dedication, to me and his career. And at the moment, his career is solely me.
  He's finished smoothing out my arm, and now he's leaning back to check the position, the size, to wonder how noticeable the imprints of his fingers are. Too much? Or just enough to show the rough texture of skin? After a moment, he nods and sidles up to me, gliding those hands up my shoulders, around my neck, down my back. If I had a heart, it would be beating. Hard and fast. Beating so warm it would burn him just by touching it. I can almost feel this. Almost... But not quite.
  My artist mumbles when he's stressed. I don't know if it's practice for bad social skills, or common reassurances, but today I hear something significant. "She's due tomorrow... "

  In the blink of an eye, I find myself in a place dark and small. Where..? And when? Now, I find fear pressed into my clay body. How can I ever see my sculptor again? Has he abandoned me? Oh, woe. Woe!
  The darkness, which I never liked, is suddenly lifted up, and I'm surrounded by people. Some gasp as they see me, others lift an object to their face, which creates a bright flash with a twitch of their finger. I find I'm scared of these people, which is silly, since I was made to please them. But now, all I desire is the cool of the basement and the heat of his fingers. No fame, none for me!
  And as it sinks into me that my say will never be accounted for, I see my love, bowing, a smile made with the finest materials sculpted on his face. I made that, I think with a glow of pleasure. He may have made me, but I made that expression. (And if you ask me, my creation is far superior.)