As I painted a picture of you,
I felt like you were there with me,
in the brush strokes and the colors.
But as I stepped back to admire my work,
the truth hit me like a cold wave crashing against my soul.
You weren't really there.
You were just a memory, a figment of my imagination,
a phantom that haunted my dreams.
I tried to capture your essence on canvas,
to freeze you in time and space,
to hold onto something that had already slipped away.
But no matter how much I painted,
how much I poured my heart and soul onto the canvas,
you were still just a picture, an image,
a mere shadow of the real you.
And as I put down my brush,
I couldn't help but feel a sense of loss,
a deep ache in my heart,
for the person who wasn't really there.