At the Center

I offered you the woman at the center of my soul, the survivor from deep waters. I laid bare her hopes, her fears, her dreams. You held them with me for a moment in time. Together we made the flowers bloom.

One day the woman realized you loved only her reflection. She caught you stealing pieces of her soul, tiny trophies of perfection diverting attention from the void of yourself. You made her an idol and yourself god.

The woman at the center of my soul grew weary of explaining that she was there, that she felt, needed, wanted, deserved to be more than an illusion you made love to. That she was an oasis and not a mirage. So she asked for her pieces back and closed the door to her garden.