For an artist, naught can cease nor fall,
In pigments pure, eternal echoes call.
Thy flesh may fade, thy voice may wane,
Yet in my strokes, thou art mine to claim.

Not in the waking world dost thou reside,
But in the gilded canvas, thou dost abide.
I cannot touch thee, nor breathe thy air,
Yet in every line, thou art forever there.

My heart is bound in each delicate stroke,
In hues unspoken, my love bespoke.
Reality’s cruel, it tears us apart,
But in my art, thou dost possess my heart.

I cannot picture us as we should be,
Yet within my hands, I paint we.
Each shade a whisper, each shade a sigh,
In this silent realm, thou art never shy.

Thine absence is a wound, unhealed, profound,
But in this painted world, thou art unbound.
I grasp thee not with flesh or eye,
But in every brush, I make thee mine to lie.

For what is love if not eternal hue?
A fleeting moment, yet forever true.
In art, thy spirit shall ever remain,
Unbroken, unyielding, beyond all pain.

Thou art not mine in life's cruel light,
But in my canvas, thou art my endless night.