The Art of a Life

We lived for the moonlight. He was a good liar, but I was better. He told me 'I love you' was wasted on me, and I believed him. His eyes always held an essence of regret, even when we weren't in bed. He wanted me to replace the hole in his heart, but I couldn't, I was just air, my words floating like leaves in and out of his reality.
His skin tasted like salt, and he was always running, whether it was out on the track or in front of me, fumbling for the phrase that would fix this. He couldn't feel anything until he closed his eyes, shutting everything else out. More than anything, I wanted him to see me. More than anything, I wanted him to wake up.
That is, until the day he did.
Gravity shifted, he smiled at things over my shoulder, and played piano as if every key was as delicate as a rose petal. It was like holding a stranger or trying to keep up on an inside joke you were never included in on. The night no longer enticed me, but frightened me. He was dancing alone, and I watched as he continued to break, sanity falling like dust to the floor.
He told me I was beautiful, that I was like a bird, that we could fly away together on the same wings. He said 'I love you', and I think he meant it, at least then.
He told me this is what love should feel like, and I believed him.