He used to stare at me like a painting;
red paint flowing off the edges of a white canvas.
He used to speak in dimensions,
always philosophizing his world and the universe and the meaning.
He used to hug me in comfort because
some days were darker than others and I needed him then more than ever.
He used to worry about what I would do when I was left alone.
He used to worry about what would happen when I was not the only one in my house because
he was the only person that knew what happened behind closed doors.
He used to be optimism and the confidence I needed to survive.
He used to be the only reason I was going to come home.
He used to be mine but
he moved on.