art has deserted me like an old friend. like every old friend. for now.

borrowed, but never mine to keep.

like an affair releasing a groundswell of emotionally draining desire and obsession.

fatal to the soul, but ever present in the mind to lust and pine after.

and love.

sigh.

i will find you again.

i'm beginning to believe i can.

and when i do, i hope you would remain for always.