Art Canvas

I painted a picture with you as my canvas.

Swirls of velvet midnight picnics splattered with unconditional laughter.

Strokes of butterfly kisses tattooed with the fragrance of us.

And I kept painting

even when you stopped reciprocating.

It was only when you walked away I realized every time I stared into your eyes

I wasn’t looking at yours—

I was staring at the reflection of mine.

You were a manifestation of my imagination.

So when you left, what made it hurt less

was realizing I never knew you to begin with.

The painting wasn’t real.

The pain was.