The problem with loving an artist is it appears beautiful
You get endless sketches of your hands and eyes
On coffee shop receipts
You get scribbles about the endless abyss of your love
Written in the margins of her class lectures
You will receive long tight embraces and soft kisses that
sometimes feel as if she is trying to swallow your scent
And that's all okay for a while

The problem with loving an artist is it gets ugly
she'll smoke too many cigarettes at 4 pm on the back porch while
She mumbles to the sunset about another day gone
You'll find her in bed at 8 am with pages of sad ramblings
Clutched in hand even in sleep
She will skip meals so she can revise the same four words
Until they are the same as originally written
She will ask you to listen to a different song every day because it
"reminds her of you"

Eventually you will find her with paint and blood
Curling into the drain
But she will shut the door on you
And when you question her about the razors you found in her nightstand
She will take them from you and say
"This is how I make my art"

And for the first time
You will read the poetry on her wrists
And you will be unable to say what she needs to hear because
You are not a poet
You do not know how to make words into love
You do not even know if you want to stay when she calls you

"Muse"