What's My Name, Now?

I've tried to see you like you aren't the sun in my solar system. I've tried to say your name like it's not the sweetest thing I've ever tasted; simultaneously all my problems and all the answers. Your name is the venom my friends spit when telling me what went wrong, but you're the praises I sing and the God I sing them to. Your name rolls off my tongue when I smile, I breathe it in and out like it's my oxygen. Your favorite song makes my eyes water and so do your two-letter texts. You started growing out your hair, but I loved it most when it was long. You still ask me how I'm feeling every time we talk, and I haven't figured out if it's because of pity or politeness; you always were a perfect lady. On rainy days, I remember you serenading me in that storage room. All the songs you wrote me, you called me your muse. My name was Night Sky and yours was Vincent; you always painted me prettier than I was. When I was black and the stars were small, you saw the blues and yellows swirling, twirling, beautiful. If only I could have shown you how I saw you, if I could have sculpted the glitter in your eyes, if I could have sung to the tune of your laughter, we could still speak. Your name is the only chord missing from my serenade, the only hue missing from my painting. Your name is my private vocabulary, a perfect synonym for breathtaking. Missing you has become the familiar ache that's made it's home in my chest, but my name to you is no longer Night Sky nor the angel in your melody. You're my Jesus Christ but I'm a Hell-bound sinner.