The painter

They say you have an artist and a muse, forever inspiring each other, forever in conflict. 

My affection for you, a complex weave,

Not the sanctioned love that stories conceive.

You, solid and unmoved, a distant figure,

As I pass through, a mere spectral vigor.

A painting behind glass, captivatingly framed,

I observe, longing to know the strokes unnamed, longing to know if I would be able to capture your essence, or if I would be too scared to be in your presence.

In pain, I sit, trying to comprehend, to create my own painting of you,

Yet, from a distance, the details suspend.

Your painting, a timeless creation,

Outliving me, defying life’s duration.

Could I be the painter and you my muse? 

Or will another canvas lure my gaze, releasing my Iris from your spell? 

Might there come a time where I will be the painting? A muse? 

Or will I always be the painter, my Iris entranced by the potential and the risk? 

A cycle of captivation, an endless maze.