I am in love with an artist. He is colour before my eyes. In front of his, I am fallen manna. I am a gift that sits pretty. I am the muse that lifts his spirits. He is needy of a piece of art- me; so yes, I am amused. He is never petty but keen on me- his inspiration. See I feel at peace when he stares into my eyes in adoration. It’s as if I am naked in a garden of exploration. Not of Eden but of a lake of plenty. Not water but of hefty love.
I am in love with an artist. He is music to my ears. And to his, I am the intrinsic song that never ends. As I play his well written notes, he finds joy in my deep well of hidden lyrics. See, he is seasoned in his field, I can tell by the sound of his melody, soothing. It’s as if I am bound by his entirety, cooling. In reality it feels like a beautiful rhapsody that only he can mould and uphold.
I am in love with an artist. To me, he is a painter. To him, I am the canvas. On some nights he puts the brush down and recites me a verse. His might- lies in colours so he uses them sparingly, no rush. They are not made of oil but love, sometimes I blush. Oh … He is patient, so whatever time he never gives hurriedly. I am his precondition so I never leave undoubtedly. We are some kind of addition to art. Inside my heart it feels like we are an ocean connected by emotions. Silent, peaceful and deep.