People talk about artists
as though creativity
were evidence
of depth.

A person can paint
light falling across a table.
Capture longing
with remarkable precision.

Mix exactly the right colors
to convince strangers
they have encountered truth.

And still be lying.

The painter spoke often
about beauty.
The necessity of vulnerability
and connection with his subjects.

These ideas arrived
with impressive frequency.
Like recurring motifs
in a gallery exhibition.

I mistook repetition
for sincerity.

A common error.

I thought there was
something else
binding the conversation.

His mother left
when he was eight.
Mine left
when I was ten.

Two children
standing in adjacent storylines.

Different houses.

The same storm.

Or so I believed.

We spoke the language
of abandonment
with fluency.

The hypervigilance.
The self-sufficiency.

The habit of searching faces
for signs of departure.

I felt
shared suffering
produced shared understanding.

That pain functioned
like a passport.
Proof of entry
into the same country.

This turns out
to be untrue.

People can survive
the same wound
and emerge speaking
entirely different languages.

Or decide not to speak the truth at all.

The paintings were real.
The conversations happened.
The meals were consumed.

The stars appeared
on schedule.

The only fictional element
was intention.

I kept searching
for hidden complexity.

A wound.

A contradiction.
A fear of intimacy.

Something elaborate enough
to justify the confusion.

Eventually,
the explanation arrived.

Not as revelation.

As reduction.

Sometimes a labyrinth
turns out to be
a straight line.

Sometimes a person
describing transcendence
is simply trying
to get laid.

This was disappointing.
Not because desire
is disappointing.
Quite the opposite.

But because I had mistaken
the frame
for the artwork.

Mistaken charm
for character.

Mistaken quick wit
for wisdom.

Mistaken a shared history
for a shared heart.

The paintings remain.
Some of them
are genuinely beautiful.

I suspect what
bothers me
is how often truth
and performance
occupy the same canvas.

How a person
can accurately depict light

without ever intending
to illuminate anything.