I fell in love with an artist.

and there was a certain honesty to the very lines that she drew
a certain impeccability to the doodles that she would sketch in the pages of that old battered scrapbook
with tape spanning the length of its broken spine
her idle mind mapped line by line
that little scrapbook with the coffee stained cover

doodles that would bare the very depths of her quintessence
a force unintelligible
                                         beautiful
                                                           unique.
 

And as the colours danced and wove
intertwined, interwreathed, interlinked
across the very canvas of my body and
stained the calico of this aging soul
for a fleeting moment I believe that I caught glimpse of beauty unbridled
I saw the blooming of grace, symmetry in the sempiternity
and I basked in the wonder of it for every day that I breathed

I shall not deny that I loved you
you that connected the dots to the very constellations of my soul
you that mapped the stars themselves with the sweeping brushstrokes of your beating heart
you that silenced the cacophony of the world outside with a single shake of your head
or a touch of my hand
or the upturned corners of your mouth whenever you smiled

Yes.

I fell in love with an artist
whose greatest piece shall forever be inked upon the very pages of this broken soul
whose cursive shall forever be etched upon this very skin until I am grey and old
and how bittersweet it is that you shall never see the product of the greatest of our most human poetry in motion
and the sum of your faultless artistry.