You spoke in riddles, wine and rhyme,

As if your truths were lost in time.

You watched me drift, you watched me stay—

But never really asked my name.

You loved the way my silence fit,

Into your song, so delicate.

You painted me with shades of white,

But I was drowning out of sight.

And I was not a ghost, nor muse—

Not some cathedral you could use.

I was real, and I was free—

You just couldn’t see

The darker shade of me.

You danced in words, you cloaked your fear,

I saw the boy behind the mirror.

The grandeur masked the cracks beneath—

While I was bleeding through your sheet.

And I was not your dream to chase,

Not marble skin or saving grace.

I was fire, and I was sea—

But you just craved

The paler part of me.

So write your songs in minor keys,

With echoes soft as winter leaves.

But know the girl you couldn't hold—

Is not the one your story told.

No, I was not a silent plea,

Not just a brushstroke in your plea.

I was voice, I was decree—

And you were blind

To the darker shade of me.

(The organ fades like memory—imperfect and unresolved)