I.

I thought you were a prism – the birthplace of rainbows,
the hope for a future far from my grief.
You showed me a world built of color:
sunsets and deep conversation and dreaming;
emotion, electric with light.
But in the end, you were just a kaleidoscope
a jumble of broken parts I tried to make art
that never quite fit the way we planned.

I don’t blame you. You were trying to make yourself art too.
Our pictures were just too different, focus hazy.
The light fractured. The sun set. We rose separate.
I’m learning.

II.

Days passed, then weeks. I don’t remember much – it was all a blur
of staring, of crying, of not crying and staring empty some more.

Then a bud. A crack. A bloom of life. One night
spent among strangers who awoke as friends.
It wasn’t a prism, but it was light.

III.

As I stumbled through the next days, the bud grew
until the blaze, tended sweetly, became a garden.
Staring in the mirror, I forgot it was reflection
and I saw the colors for the first time.
I wasn’t looking for imperfection, and so I didn’t find flaws
just the prism radiating,
rainbow blooming through and beneath.
All along, the prism I needed
was me.