The Partner I Painted
I said I knew him—
like the sea knows the moon,
drawn, pulled, dancing tides to his rhythm.
I traced constellations in the freckles on his back,
wrote sonnets on the way he stirred his coffee,
knew his heartbeat like a song I was born with.
I could name the sound his silence made,
the way his right eye twitched when he lied,
how he always looked left when he didn’t want to cry.
I memorized his favorite shade of regret.
And still loved him.
I said I knew him—
like the roots know rain,
the thunder before the downpour.
I forgave storms that shattered me
because he smiled like sunlight
and I was always cold.
I built an altar from our laughter.
Burnt my pride as sacrifice.
Called him my home.
My poem.
My person.
But—
He was not mine.
He was never real.
Just a ghost I drew on a canvas of longing.
A man made of metaphors and needs.
I was the only one in the room.
Talking. Loving. Remembering.
He was a story I told myself
just to feel
less alone.
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