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.
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.