Painting done in red wine and coffee

I once knew a man who walked in starlight. Miles away, sand beneath his feet he would contemplate the universe and our place in it. I would run deep into the woods to dance with fireflies and stand in awe of the patterns and complexities of this world. He and I both wished for someone to share our visions with. We found one another and could talk for hours about storms and oceans, stars and gravity anything and everything that we could think of. One time we talked about how our souls at one point in time must have shared the same star. In reaching as far as we could we could never touch, so desperate it was our craving for one another that everything broke down. This is where I learned that every love is different , and the worst love of all is to love a poet. It is a lucky tragedy to experience this even once in your life and you are luckier still to lose it. It is the kind of love that old men weep over even forty years later. Its so deep that even in joy there is a tinge of sadness and in its tragedy a touch of beauty, like blood and chocolate.