Some day I’d like to marry an artist
An artist with dark hair swept up in a ponytail, his eyes shrouded by glasses and something even more transparent, stubble veiling his chin.
He would live in a little flat, his pen and his hand and his brush and his veins
So focused, so desperately searching on white canvas, paper, screen

Sunlight would bathe him in his tiny studio,
Darkness would never reach him at night
Always with a little lamp on to light
His way, his fingers always searching, searching.

When we marry, he would draw me a ring of ink
With the very fingers he used to search and search on the vast white canvas
And for a moment, search me instead
Like I am an enigma more worthy of exploration
A diamond is forever
But the dark pigment that dries and stains my fourth finger
Would be a thousand times forever, to linger
On my skin, on my soul, even after I wash it away.

We would have no children.
His works are his children, besides.
But at night when he traces my body with those very hands he used to sketch his works
I would feel so full
I would feel so loved
Because what am I, compared to those works, those pure, brilliant children of his soul and mind?
Because he is a man, but no, he is a mother
Much more a mother, much more deserving of that title than I
For who can sacrifice his life for his children
Who are not children of flesh and blood,
But of memory, of love, of pain?

Some days, when it rains, he would be sprawled on the floor
Of his tiny studio, his glasses thrown across the room
He would bawl, he would cry, he would thunder in sorrow
Because what greater sorrow is there than that of
Being unable to capture a sorrow?
Only then would he need me, to hold his hands, those beautiful hands
And comfort him like a normal person does best

I would kneel down at his side, pulling his head to my lap,
Thread my fingers through his hair, examining each follicle one by one
As if they are threads of ink, just like the one
He’d drawn on my finger, so many years ago
I would pour in words I know, words that have been with me during all my life
Pour them into his ear, let him see without opening his eyes
His greatness, and my love for him
But words are nothing, nothing compared to the art he makes,
The looming, lingering swirls of joy or solitude, and sometimes both
But he needs words sometimes, we all do,
So I will give them to him, all my words.
All my soul.

“If we were words, we would rhyme” I would say
Because that’s all I know, words, words, words
So easy to mistake, so easy to misunderstand
And what is a rhyme, if there is no meaning?
But he would shake his head, and trace with those godly hands
My scar of ink on the fourth finger of my left hand
He would smile, and say nothing
Because he needs no words, he is not like me,
Who uses words like bricks, to build walls, to build paths, and occasionally, to
Bust someone’s head
He would kiss that invisible, burning band
And look at me, just look at me
And I would look at him

The next morning, I would wake up, tangled in the sheets,
My body shrouded by the sheets
Reaching to my right for a warmer body than mine
But alas! Only pristine, sterile white remains
And so in my terror, when I run to the studio, not even a swab of paint on me,
I would find him,
His hands smearing a canvas
It would be nothing
But I would know, it would not be nothing
Because it would be me.
No words, he would tell me through the movements of his wrists
That he is nothing without me
But I am nothing without you, I would protest
But he would smile and shake his head again,
Tracing, yet again, the dark band on my ring finger
And tell me without noise
That I am his work
His greatest work yet
And that he is my work as well.