Spam

The moon spills silence across the walls,
the glass remembers a breath that isn’t mine,
on a night like this, God would know,
I paint us again, layer by layer.

A silhouette rises from the dark,
familiar, yet never fully mine,
others may see it, but read it differently
in me, you are always the same color.

I gather you from small old things,
from letters that refuse to fade,
from words I never said
and those still living inside me.

I found blue in your gaze,
the kind that calms when everything breaks,
and a touch of red from a single moment
that still burns quietly within me.

I took green from “maybe,”
from hope that refuses to fade,
and yellow from those summer days
when you felt closer than the world.

I added lilac, soft and longing,
for all we never dared to say,
and grey, the one that never fails,
for the days we had to walk away.

And I did not spare black
it finds its way into everything,
because without it there is no light,
nor what both hurts and warms.

And somewhere between those shades
you remain, without frame or plan,
more feeling than form,
more silence than anything I can name.

My heart cracks like an old acacia tree,
but through its fractures the light returns,
and every time I paint you again
another piece of me comes back.

And I know this painting will never be finished,
there will always be one trace missing,
because how do you paint something
that does not end
even when it is no longer there?