portrait of a person who never was
Painted a picture.
I thought I drew you well.
Mixed moonlight with memory,
called it truth and framed it on the wall.
I gave your silence a laugh,
your absence a pulse,
stitched constellations into empty sleeves
and dressed a ghost in gold.
Every brushstroke was a prayer
for a miracle to stay still.
I shaded your flaws with mercy,
highlighted your virtues with hunger,
until the canvas knew you better
than you had ever known yourself.
Visitors stopped and stared.
"Who is that?" they'd ask.
And I'd smile, because I didn't know.
The eyes belonged to hope.
The mouth belonged to loneliness.
The hands belonged to every goodbye
I was too frightened to release.
Then one morning the paint began to crack.
The colors slid downward like tears,
revealing the white beneath,
the terrible holiness of nothing.
That's when I understood:
I never lost you.
I lost the masterpiece
I made from empty space.
And standing before a blank canvas,
for the first time in years,
I met the artist.
Not the illusion.
Me.
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