I looked into you and I saw myself, and in my ego, I loved you, because only through you could I love myself. Now, you are gone and I no longer love myself as I did, because this glass heart shattered in the knowing that I could never be complete through you, in the enlightenment that I can only be my true self without you, that looking at myself through the prism of your smiling blood-red lips, I lost parts of myself and I was blinded to what I am. With you, through you, I only saw the monster or the man, the artist or the thinker, the lover or the rejecter. This dichotomy shaded the complexities, making blacks and whites of rainbows, and lilies out of roses. And, with these new eyes, away from yours, I see you clearly for the first time: a beautiful mess, colorful and imperfect and bent, just as often lost and scared as everyone else, as you feel your way through this life.

And as I stand here, gazing at my reflections in the pieces of what was, tracing the signs that you were part of this chaos, I can see the angles, the curves, the jagged edges from which all of us are made. With the blood dripping from my fingers, shredded by the shards of our shared illusions, I write words that you will never read, words that will wither like we have, quietly and resignedly. We will tell ourselves that we tried to see beyond the shadows even when we know we did not, even when we know we could have seen more. I will now sit with the pieces and enjoy the colors they paint the bland world around me, and lose myself to fantasies of the canvases we could have seen and drawn when the gray reality becomes heavy, lost in my mind’s colors, in what I imagine are your colors too. Once again, lost in the light shows, in the illusions. Blinded.


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