She drew mindlessly.

Her pen gliding across her page like a figure skating demonstration.

So smooth, and precise but most importantly, beautiful.

No one ever really understood what she drew, an erratic and wild display of imagination curvy, rigid and sharp.

Like her tongue.

She illustrated her mind for the world to see, she laid herself bare. I looked upon her wilderness and read it like poetry.

I wish I had the courage to open myself up the way she did. God, I fell in love with her poems.

Yet she hid her poetry among these pictures cryptic, where she turned her pages into metaphors.

She made mine look inferior.

So I fell in love with an artist.

But an artist who drew for another.