​I think I might be in love with a dead woman. 

She’s alive in my dreams.
In them, she drinks tequila with me, runs naked with me and we share a cigarette in the aftermath.

This dead woman speaks to me.
Even though I have no understanding of her rolling Spanish tongue.
Her eyes see into me like she knows exactly where I put the thundering clouds in my mind.

I am in love with a dead woman.
I dream of being tickled by her mustache.
Waking up to hear the workings of her brain and watching her unfold herself on a canvas.

I love her like I know her.
And maybe because I do.
Because  the more I learn about her, the more of myself I see.
The more I see the woman I also want to be.

I’m in love with a dead woman.
Imagine that.
Who knew that her paint, and her words and being were so potent that it would make her immortal.

Immortal because my love her is beating and alive.

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