Imaginary Paint

My heart painted a perfect image of you only to find the paint was imaginary…

Imaginary Paint

My heart painted the perfect image of you—
slow strokes of hope
across an empty canvas.

I chose the softest colors,
mixed trust with longing,
dipped my brush in maybe
and called it forever.

I shaded in your promises,
highlighted your potential,
framed your silences
like they meant depth
instead of distance.

I made you art.

Hung you in the gallery
of my ribcage,
admired you in the quiet
when loneliness felt loud.

But when the rain came—
when truth pressed hard against the sky—
the colors began to run.

Not fade.
Run.

Because the paint was imaginary.

There was no pigment,
no weight,
no real outline beneath my dreaming.

Just air shaped like a man
I wanted you to be.

And I stood there—
palms stained with nothing—
realizing I had fallen in love
not with who you were,
but with the masterpiece
I created
from hope alone.