If I were not a person who dealt in words the same way others dealt in currency (or maths or measures or facts or any number of infinitely more practical things)
If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages and thoughts against spaces
I would never love an artist
because no matter the medium of the life cra wl in g beneath their skin
No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair (or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash or build monuments to his unguarded laughter or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)
no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale Their hearts do not exist βcannotβ outside of the muse they substitute to pump their passions through their veins
And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters and devoured the length of meters
I would never love an artist
because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse sold, clapped in heavy irons to a desert oasis you cannot reach because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt
For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her (or worshipped her or tortured her or reveled in her or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)
If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more than what the world might first offer
But I am. And I understand.
And I would never love an artist
For I belong to my muse and so does he and She demands that no competition come from the love She allows me outside Her chamber doors and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed
And I can only ever love an artist who might forgive And who might understand If I told her she is my muse no longer