I am in love with a woman.
I see her in the canvases as they reveal worlds to me of saturated sunsets and brilliant, vivacious skies. The brightest cadmium, the lightest cerulean, the deepest indigo- none of them do her justice as they bleed from the ends of my bristles to the surface of my two dimensional plane, but I am trying, forever trying.
I feel her in the heat of the fire as I form molten glass into crystal, diamond-like flowers. The prismatic rainbows that scatter across my lids speak her name in pink, blue, and yellow. These fragile blossoms are but a mere echo of her beauty, such beauty, so much beauty.
I hear her voice in the songs in my ear because these are her songs and that is her voice and she is a siren and a goddess, a singer and a muse. She is the lightning bolt of inspiration that keeps these trembling hands busy, and the devil will never have them, for these idle fingers are a slave to her and only her and always her.
I am in love with a woman whom I never have met.
I am in love with her words and her voice and her sweetly sung soul, her lyrics of loss and her melodies of madness.
I am in love, I am in love, I am in love.