The Painter’s Pieces

It made sense for a while.

The pieces clicked, perfectly.
Two halves of one painting,
found, as if by magic.

And everyone saw the harmony.
It made sense.
For a while.

But now,
they say the artist painted more than just us,
more than just two.

That on a different wall,
under different light,
through other eyes,
you’ll see new connections,
new harmony.

You were an artwork,
complex, yet simple,
tangled in colors that made every shade of beautiful.

And I?
I was an artwork too,
all abstract lines and quiet intention,
beautiful in my own strange symmetry.

Maybe one day,
they’ll find another piece,
one that fits,
one that reveals new shapes and shadows
hidden in me all along.

But maybe,
just maybe,
I don’t want to make sense
with anyone
or anything
but you.