Him, I Love.


He walks beside me,

Just once,

Because no one was around,

It’s a lie,

This bond between us,

We lie,

All the time,

To them, not just each other,

But we can’t help it.

I am drawn to him,

To his face,

To his heart,

To his loves, and his hates.

He had just been a star to me,

The first time I saw him,

He was shrouded in sadness,

And in happiness,

Gently carving away the rot.

There was nothing I didn’t understand,


That expression.

I didn’t understand why, why

Did he look like that,

Doing what he was doing?

It wasn’t alive,

It wasn’t dead,

It wasn’t breathing at all.

It was just wood, or something.

I didn’t get it at all.

But I wanted to paint it.

I wanted to paint that expression,

That was my first lie.

My second, the one where I said,

“I won’t fall in love with you, I promise,”

And he smiled.

My heart broke,

And I mellowed in my self hate,

Hating myself for being a coward,

It was just a promise,

A cold hearted, mean promise,

So why had I fallen in love with him?

He walks beside me,

And my heart races in anticipation.

I will paint his picture,

Just like I saw it,




He sits patiently,

A light smile on his face,

A taint of sadness in his eyes,




Everyday it’s like this,

This secret love of mine,


I can’t tell him,

That I fell in love the first moment I met him.

How can I?  I made a promise,

But still, I wonder,

He is not the kind of guy to accept a girl’s company,

To sit and walk with,

Much less paint him.

He walks beside me,

Once again, and perhaps,

For the last time.

The painting is almost done,

But I didn’t want to finish it.

I’ve dragged it out too long,

Nothing has changed,

Except he still carves that wood,

Cutting out the rot,

Turning it from rough to smooth.

I still watch him,

Still admire him,

Still want his everything.

I can’t lie anymore,

But I don’t want him to hate me.

Not me, not my painting,

I want to earn his love,

And so I paint the last stroke,

And title it “him, I love.”

It hung in a gallery,

All my love,


A portrait to the world,

I wished I’d kept it to myself.

It was a secret love,

A one love,

This was my confession, even if,

I never said it in words.

But I think he knew,

That I lied, from the heart,

Because he asked.

I think he knew,

Because I got my answer,

A statue of wood,

Of a girl, and her easel,

Carved by a beautiful hand,

Titled, “She, I love.”

I never thought,

That it could happen.

This time it’s not a lie,

But the truth,

When he walks beside me,

I know how he feels.

He’s still a star,

A gem from another world,

But I can touch him now.

I can hold his hand.


2 thoughts on “Him, I Love.

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