Painting Him Perfect

Your version of the person is always perfect til reality hits. He was only painted perfect

Painting Him Perfect

I kept a brush behind my ribs,
dipped it in hope, in maybe, in almost.
Every flaw I softened with shadow,
every silence—highlighted into mystery.

I painted his distance as depth,
his absence as space to breathe.
Called his half-love “quiet,”
called his leaving “timing.”

I learned the art of filling blanks—
how to turn apologies into sunsets,
how to frame potential like a masterpiece
and hang it where truth should’ve been.

But paint dries.
And eventually the cracks show through,
no matter how gentle the hand,
no matter how much light you swear you see.

He was never the portrait on my wall—
just a man standing still
while I worked overtime
making him beautiful.