Fall in love with an artist.
She'll dedicate pages and pages of poetry about how you flick your hair away from your eyes, she'll describe you in words more beautiful than any sunset you've ever laid your eyes on, more delicate and graceful than the way the ocean touches its shore.
She'll paint your dreams together in vivid colors, she'll put every single intricate detail, from the veins in your hands to the way you
cringe your nose when you smile.
She'll write songs for your birthday and she'll ask you to sing along, she'll lull you to sleep with her voice as soft as the gentle breeze enveloping the both of you as you lay.
She'll take pictures of stolen, often unnoticed moments. Like the way you bite your lip while you're thinking of what to write, the way you rub your eyes first thing in the morning.
But never break an artist's heart.
She will dedicate a whole book about the last words you said to her, she'll write about how everything is her fault when she knows it isn't and you can't even read the pages because her tears made the ink bleed through, as if the book were her heart and the ink was her blood. Torn, and useless.
She'll use her fingers as brushes, she'll smear them with a mess of colors and she wouldn't even care if she gets dirty, because what use would her hands be if you weren't even there to hold them.
She'll write songs about pretty much every stage of grief, only to find herself humming the song she wrote about you as she drinks her coffee at 3am.
She'll travel far away and take photos of the most beautiful places, only to end up thinking that something's missing. That the only element that could make every scene perfect is your presence.
