To fall for an artist is a cruel blessing,
and I'm sorry you had to
experience that euphoric burst
followed by such a swift exit.
But you can't say I didn't warn you.

I'll immortalize you in poems,
filling my notebooks and your head
with lines proclaiming the pure
incredibleness of you.

I'll take pictures and leave notes,
overwhelmed by the thunder crack
of your presence and the sizzle
you leave in your wake.

The problem with thunderstorms is
they usually bring flash floods.
Out of nowhere you're drowning,
but when it recedes you're left
soaked and gasping.

And I'm sorry to say the lightning
has died down, so I've carefully folded
your paper heart to place amongst
my other crumpled mementos.
Loving an artist is a cruel blessing.
I did warn you, my dear.