The man who caught my heart soon became quite a fixture in our stone house. He regaled my Papa with humorous stories of his travels.

Always I felt his eyes watching me, searching me, as I flitted about trying to distract myself.

As soon as he was gone I would disappear into my room, which was now littered with shards of charcoal, splattered paint and canvases stacked with precision in the corner.

There was little room for me. My life had been consumed. Maybe my Mama was right when she accused me of being “too far gone.”

The minute he walked out the door I was consumed with fear that he would not come back. The only way I could ensure he would linger in my heart was to draw and paint him.

My Mama and Papa had no idea why I was hiding from them.

One day when I was on a mission to find a certain shade of pink for his lips they became curious and began snooping.

I could tell when I got back that someone had viewed each and every painting. They had been moved.

I was furious and enraged. How dare anyone touch him but me. Yes, I know, the paintings were not really him, but they were for me to touch, only me. I feared that if I touched him I would lose myself in entirety, never to be my own person again.

In all honesty I think I may have overrated the importance of being me, without him, that is.