He loved you for the swing in your hips and the way you chewed your hair when you painted. He loved you even more for the way you could feel his emotions in the air like braille. You were made of magic. When you felt, you felt deeply, and suddenly, his sepia planet flowered. It was life that he saw, and he knew it came from you.
These days he likes the swing in your hips and the way you chew your hair just fine. He’s less fond of the way you can read his feelings like braille because he wants to hide. You know you’re not magical to him anymore, but he won’t admit it. He’d rather you didn’t know such things because he’s not ready to let you go, so he tells you he loves you in his wooden, wooden voice.
Your gold skin has turned to sepia now. You’ve cut your hair and stopped painting. Something’s missing in your relationship, but you can’t say what. All you know is that you’ve become so damned insecure, but every time he comes home half an hour late or leaves for a weekend bender, something in your throat begins to burn.
Your world has tilted off centre and there’s a stickiness in the air that feels like sweat. You feel for his love like braille and find nothing more than glitter. Some days, he remembers the way you used to paint flowers in his hair, and for a second, he resents you for changing. He hates your braille and your words and your sheer fucking rainbow of colour for no reason other than that you are now used.
He’ll keep you, but he doesn’t want you. Not entirely, so you’ll stretch your hands out into the darkness hoping to touch something true. There’s nothing to find though. I know, because he used to love me, too.