You once told me about a painting you drew,
You told me there was a painting underneath
But when I asked of what,
You wouldn’t tell me;
It was too soon.

Everything about you felt like an enigma,
Even though you bared so much of your soul to me,
Your secrets, your fears, your burdens,
And much like that painting,
I felt that I could only scratch the surface of you

You beautiful, mysterious creature,
Enshrouded in secrets,
Wrapped in riddles

I still wonder about that painting,
And what I would have learned
But you were a tome that I’ll never finish,
Your pages left to be read by another,
Who would drink in your rich stories
And savor them like a prized wine aged by time and effort

And though I am merely a footnote in your storied history,
I am grateful to be associated with your name,
To have touched your life,
And have been there for you as I have


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