wow, you have an intense gift for imagery

Ehhh ignore that last bit, I was struggling to use the interface here. haha, I'm a newbie.

“There’s no way you could ever see me.”
The painting whispered sharply to the tall, lanky blind man, who was caressing what he thought was a portrait of his mother. Upright in the middle of a most grandiose art gallery, he wore mostly an empty old coat scuffed without end by his elaborate travels.
“The palette is only in shades of blue!” scream-mocked the agitated painting, so tired of being touched.
“Blue,” thought the usually attention deficient blind man, “just like my face.”
Verismo was born without vision in a recycling plant. Some people simply joked over his mother’s fondness for returning cans and others swore him among the miraculous few. I found him to be just another misguided son of God.        
As a child Verismo moved clumsily through the foster care system. Switching families every few months or so, the creepy eccentric child never held anyone close to him. Like a rented VHS kept at hand temporarily by only prideful Samaritans or scornful unfortunates. However, he did manage to collect a diverse and conflicting population of loyal father figures. He never found true maternal warmth. Often though, he was cradled on a rocking chair in his most stratospheric dreams. Sweet statements serenaded and melodious motions crafted memories, memories that could never be true outside of that reoccurring rapid eye movement.
Such longing made him a strong man with also a strong weakness that visited him usually more often than monthly. Somewhere down the path of insubordinate loneliness and self-resent fueled art gallery visits, he became quite delusional.        
At first the art gallery’s ruthless security would literally throw him out upon the first touch of any relic. Then after awhile all of his visits became trespasses. With persistent returns though, they began to understand what this actually meant to him. He breathed the paintings in like second hand smoke. 
Today, nervously he planted, body shaped like a crucifix, with long-traveled legs in front of the painting and short arms reaching aimlessly and always too short. Just as he always did, only now, his coat pockets were engorged with laminated card copies of “Our Father”s and “Hail Mary”s. Square-headed as ever, he smiled softly as he alternated between touching his yellow tinted sunglasses and the ripples of paint Braille. She was proud of him, he could feel it. Verismo needed this, and the air around him in particular today, repelled the staff and visitors for even hours after closing. I, the janitor was the only mosquito to remain.
My downpour of broom strikes, mop lashes, and vacuum shouts did nothing to his concentration, hard as the white marble floor tiles holding him on this second floor. I could even hear his periodic laughter, overjoyed as it pierced right through my eye sockets. Besides, the strategic placement of my trash barrel allowed me to stay within curious earshot.
Incoherently he decided to mumble to himself while I got lost in a distant corner to clear cobwebs.
“Now at the hour of our death…”
I heard him say along with several other nonspecific morbid references. His smirk told me he was unafraid of the forest creeping back in with its moss and fungi frontline, unafraid of the woodland creatures who may militantly reclaim the land. They were sacrificial if it meant he could hold this forever. Perhaps he poked out his own eyes because they became too itchy.
I tried to quietly approach him but he untouchably sensed my ambush and thus launched a preemptive strike.

“Is there enough room on Earth for everyone to hold a gravestone?”
 “…”
There was nothing I could say to him and he knew it. His words were pre-rehearsed and rhetorical. His mind was already done with that question. His mind was on that painting. Eyes could glow if they were open. I retreated back to the cob webs and pretended he didn’t exist.
The more I swept the more frozen he seemed, aside from his innate rhythmic quiver, he was a stationary air conditioning unit. Countless window sills to other worlds surrounded him, and he used to sift through them in a rush. This was all so unusually graceful, I couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist. 
Suddenly, “On Earth as it is in Heaven,” became illegibly soaked in crimson fluid, I could hear it. The cross-shaped man clenched his fists, fell forward, and kissed the painting with both his wrinkled forehead and his slapped together lips. Flakes of blue stayed with his face, shaking as he retracted back into cross-formation, and his glasses fell toward the ground. Grinning delicately and letting out a calm laugh before the pang echoed through the still-frame hallways, he descended near unconscious, into the trash barrel and opened his blind glass eyes.  The mediocre vista shook,
“The ocean cannot be your mother!”