Eventually the moon loses its shine over time.
It dims and then fades; nature's greatest crime.
The van Gogh you desired turns dim, then black.
It's lost in the memories you won't get back.

The stars you wished on burned out in the sky.
Falling like tears that you refused to cry.
Splattered like a Pollack, then erased from sight,
Left alone to ponder your life in the night.

It may be darkest before the dawn.
But all of your dreams seem to be gone.
You're channeling your inner Picasso blue,
But dreaming of what else there is to do.

Your easel is life, your brush be your decision.
Will your masterpiece come from perfect precision?

I will never understand artists.

They move, beholden to the dictates of an unseen master, in ways that I can't fathom.

They produce works which I could not create, do so for a cost that I wouldn't pay, and roll with highs that I can't imagine.

All in all, I know they are different. That's easy to say now, but much harder to say when you are with an artist.

Artists are attractive. Free, confident, focused, and talented: what's not to love? If an artist takes you as their muse, you become part of the process, which at first seems amazing.

You get to be part of the creation of something bigger than yourself! Then, you realize that you are the emotional equivalent of a paintbrush for the artist; a disposable tool. That makes the whole thing seem less amazing.

Artists are devoted to their art, that's what makes them special. It's also what makes you less than special to them. You can be around when it helps the process, but make no mistake, when it doesn't help the process, you are out.

Commitment to an artist is nothing in comparison to craft. They have to produce; it's their life. So, really, I can't blame them (ok, I really mean that I can't blame her) for not behaving normally.

They never said they were normal. Why did I expect otherwise?

Things can't always be the
way we want them too,
and I'm trying to fall
in love with this idea
that no matter what
I end up doing with my life,

it wouldn't have
really mattered anyways.

I will admit that I struggle with what I can't give to you. It bugs me.  It eats me up inside.

I see the care and genuine respect that you show me and I want to react. But I can't.  Not in the way I want to do so.

Believe me. I want to do so much.  I want to make grand gestures, promise you the world,  and say the things that my heart hides.

To do so,  would please me, would stoke the embers of my soul.  

But. ..it would station your life,  and I won't do that.

Instead,  I am focused on what I can do. It is not as if I can't show what I feel,  to demonstrate it. I just have to be subtle.

I am,  not by choice,  but by need,  committed to the slow burn. I will leave you with hints;  with clues to piece together.  I will beat around the bush and show you the meaning of restraint.  Because THAT is what I can do.

Your lips -dry,
Same as how our conversations went.
All lacking basis,
just another insensible argument.

Your skin -cold,
Is this why you seem quite indifferent?
The way you stare,
There's no more sense of excitement.

Your pulse -fast.
It pounds rapidly as though on a race.
Until we grew apart,
'Cause I can no longer keep your pace.

Your status -confused.
And the severe water loss caused lethargy.
Our prognosis?
Poor. For this story ends in tragedy.