zephyrielrosse

[zephyrielrosse]

He is the face my hands will never get tired of tracing, the lines my heart has memorized like the verses of an old, beloved poem. Every curve, every shadow, and every fading expression of his is etched into me like a masterpiece I will spend the rest of my life perfecting.

If love is devotion, then mine is in every stroke, every gentle press of pencil to paper, and every attempt to capture what can't be contained. No matter how many times I try, no art of mine will ever do him justice. But that's the beauty of it...to chase the impossible, to draw him again and again, not because I must, but because I simply cannot help myself.

Even when time slows my hands and dims my sight, I will still find his face in the fading light. In my final days, when ink and graphite rest beside me, I will close my eyes and see him still—my muse, my love, the masterpiece I was always meant to create.

#idk #a painting for my muse #phyri

[zephyrielrosse]

There is something beautiful about the way we grew closer. Like the first light of dawn slipping over the horizon to warm the sky little by little. We talk. Not in a rush, but in conversations that can stretch for hours, between dawn and dusk.

There's no urgency between us. We needn't to label what we are. Instead, we stay in the in-between space, as if our hands were brushing but not quite holding yet.

And maybe that's what I love most. That knowing that whatever this is, and whatever it will become, it's blooming as it should. In its own time, in its own way. A kind of love that does not demand, but simply grows slowly, like petals unfurling in the warmth of the sun.

[zephyrielrosse]

Grief is heavy. It settles deep, sinking into your bones in a way that it never really leaves. I'm standing here, staring at the statue I spent weeks creating, and I can't help but wonder—did you ever think it'd come to this? Did you ever imagine that after you were gone, I'd try to bring you back like this? Piece by piece, with my own two hands.

Every line, every curve, is a memory of you. Your smile. The way your shoulders would shift when you laughed. That little tilt of your head when you got lost in your thoughts. I've tried to capture it all. But it was never enough. No matter how hard I try, something is always missing—something I can't name, something I know I'll never be able to get right.

And so I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cool surface of your stone cheek, and for a moment, I let myself pretend. Pretend that the weight of your absence hasn't hollowed me out. Pretend that this version of you could turn its head, meet my gaze, and fill the silence with your laugh. But the stone stays still, and I am left with nothing but the ache in my chest and the dust on my hands.