The Artist

Today,

I crossed another threshold—

not only through sacred hands

or whispered oaths beneath candlelight,

but through the quiet funeral

of a version of myself.

The timing feels almost cruel.

On the very day

I was taught to wield deeper mysteries,

the greatest lesson

arrived wearing the face

of an artist.

He painted upon me

without ever lifting a brush.

He taught me

that not every soul

who admires your light

understands the fire

that forged it.

I offered no chains.

No promises.

No impossible futures.

Only presence.

Only kindness.

Only the sacred language

of two human beings

finding warmth

inside a cold and temporary world.

Yet somehow,

my open hands

were mistaken

for grasping ones.

And that misunderstanding

cut deeper

than any blade

I have ever willingly placed

against my own skin.

Because what broke

was never romance.

It was trust.

The quiet belief

that someone could look

into my eyes

and see me

exactly as I had stood before them—

without inventing shadows

where there were none.

So tonight,

as wax melts,

incense rises,

and old names

are quietly shed upon the altar…

I bury something.

Not my tenderness.

Never that.

I bury the desperate hope

that being genuine

will always be understood.

The Goddess asks us

to descend before we rise.

To strip away illusion

until nothing remains

but bone,

breath,

and truth.

Perhaps this

was my descent.

Perhaps the artist

was never meant

to become my masterpiece.

Perhaps he was simply

the charcoal sketch

left beneath the finished painting—

necessary,

beautiful,

and destined

to disappear beneath the layers.

Still…

There is a part of me

that will always mourn

the friendship

that could have been.

A ghost

will forever wander

through the gallery

of my memory,

pausing before an unfinished canvas,

wondering

what colors

we never had the chance

to mix together.

Tonight,

I do not curse him.

I release him.

With tears

that taste like salt

and smoke.

With hands

that have learned

the weight

of both blessing

and goodbye.

This is what the Second Gate

has asked of me.

Not power.

Discernment.

Not harder walls.

Holier boundaries.

For every initiation

demands an offering.

And today…

mine

was an artist

who never realized

he had become

part of my becoming.