I want to fall in love with a writer.
A legit, somber and nonchalant writer.

Because then, I can expect her to write sonnets about my look.
Haiku's about the way I kiss her in the most disturbing places.
I can expect her to write endless pages about how I've hurt her last night when I told her I needed space.

Because I bet she'll spend sleepless nights trying to figure out the perfect synonyms to define me. She'll perfectly describe how my lips taste, and how my eyes demand things.

I would wake up with poems. Just because.

Because then I know I could be immortal - in her papers.

I want to be someone's artwork. The idea of it at least.