The Drawing That Stopped

I had begun drawing him before his illness.

It was a beautiful painting…

Every feature of his in it was alive.

But after he was gone…

I could not touch it.

Every time I pick up the pen,

I feel I am betraying him if I finish it without him there.

The painting remained as it was:

an unfinished face…

and a gaze that had not finished its way.

As if it were saying what I could not say.

After he was gone, I fell ill.

It was not just my body…

Something inside me had broken quietly.

The doctors said it was a condition that needed time,

but they did not understand that I had not fallen ill alone…

but had lost the one who had been my support

In moments of pain, I would see him in my memory.

Supporting me as he always used to do.

And slowly… I began to learn something new:

That loss does not kill, but it changes us forever.