He was like a gypsy. He was a listless soul, constantly searching for something.
He was an artist.
He flowed like a river, letting the water currents carry him wherever it pleased. But the thing about a river is that it always flows back to the ocean.
And I was his ocean.
It seemed that fate had done us the most justifiable injustice, the way our paths inevitably intertwined whenever we tried so hard to go our separate ways.
See, when an artist falls in love with you, you are never forgotten.
You can never die. A part of you will always live on through their work.
I was his bittersweet muse.