With brush in hand, I painted a scene,
A picture of you, where reality convenes,
In hues and strokes, I tried to capture your grace,
To bring your essence to life, in this sacred space.
For a fleeting moment, I felt your presence near,
As if you were here, in this painting, my dear,
But alas, the truth revealed its bitter sting,
That the image on the canvas couldn't truly bring.
It was a mirage, an illusion in my mind,
A reflection of longing, a yearning undefined,
Though the colors danced, and the forms took shape,
They couldn't bridge the distance, the emptiness, the ache.
The truth, like a ghost, whispered in my ear,
That you were far away, nowhere near,
The painting held fragments, memories intertwined,
But it couldn't replace the reality we left behind.
Yet still, I hold the canvas close to my heart,
For in those brushstrokes, a connection does impart,
A reminder of the love and beauty we once knew,
A testament to the depths of feelings that grew.
So, I'll treasure this painting, flawed though it may be,
For it holds a piece of you, a part of me,
And in this artistry, a bittersweet truth,
That sometimes, the paintings we create can't fully soothe.
But let them serve as echoes of a love that was true,
Whispering tales of a connection we once knew,
For in each stroke and color, a story is told,
Of a love that transcends, even when it can't unfold.