tree of permanence

I wish to be filmed like the dead wife in the movies,
she lives through the art of her lover.

I don’t believe I desire to be dead, but, contrary,
become immortal through the eyes of someone who

etches you into their skin of artistic expression.

Quite frankly, I’ve found myself in a position
where everyone I’ve loved has become a root from the tree of permanence.

And yet, I stutter when I answer the question:

“Whose muse, are you?”

To struggle at the tip of the tongue
to voice where I’ve evoked art from someone else’s heart—

unpredictable acts of love
and indirect forms of “I love yous.”

The dead wife pulls at your artistic strings
that play a melody that yearns—

sonnets that create an inebriated stare.
I seem to have forgotten

that my soul aches to be kidnapped by insatiable inspiration.

So, I create,
to keep my soul and mind at prime.

In my life I’ve chosen to be the artist that loves,
and not be the one to say

 “The artist, is mine.”

As I sleep, knowing what awaits

I’ll wake up in my second life

And only then, luck can grant me the favor—

And have me be, the immortal dead wife.