THE PAINTER ON THE SHORE III: the desire

The painter searches for a love

That does not bloom only to wither.
A love untouched by time,
Unafraid of decay,
A love that does not loosen its grip
When beauty leaves the room.

He longs for a love
That looks at every fracture in him
As though it were another constellation.
A love that enters the cathedral of his ruin
And kneels,
Not to mourn him,
But to remain.

For what is a life
If not a question
Waiting for another heart to answer?

The painter believes
That somewhere there exists a love
So impossibly faithful
It will outlive every storm,
Every silence,
Every version of himself that begs to disappear.

A love that will hold his name
As though it were sacred,
That will gather the ashes of his doubts
And breathe them into stars.

Because perhaps
To be loved without condition
Is the closest thing to immortality.
To be chosen
Even after every illusion has fallen,
Even when there is nothing left to desire
But the soul itself.

He does not want a love that rescues him.

He wants a love that stands before the abyss within him,
Looks into its endless mouth,
And says—

Even this is worthy of my devotion.

Only then, the painter thinks,
Will his heartbeat become more than a habit.
Only then
Will his life cease to be a burden he carries
And become a home
Someone refused to leave.

But can he recognize heaven from afar

without first mistaking hell for light

and letting it burn his tender skin?

Or must every soul die once

before it finds paradise?