Ghost of Mine

I watch him fall onto the couch in the room and bury his face in his hands. He is not crying. He seems to be upset, but only frustrated.

I hate myself for having done this to him, but I just cannot have him let me go. I do not wish to leave his mind or his head. I want him to remember me as more than just a painting. I want to mean more to him than that.

He seems so capable of loving, so full of emotions, but it is as if he does not allow himself to share them, or to even admit them.

I just wish for him to feel. I just wish for him to experience the love that I feel – for him. I love him. I love his dedication and strive. I love his vulnerability and sensibility. I love his durability and strength. I love his features and gestures. I love his eyes and his lips. I love him.

I cannot leave him. I refuse to do so. Which is why I leave his sight, before he can finish his painting of me. Until he promises not to let me go, or until I am ready to be let go of, I will not show myself to him again.

I will stay.