To Be Loved By A Writer

I want to be loved by a writer…

I long to be loved by a writer…

I want to be held in the ink that courses through the veins of my writer.

I want to see my life in the pages of his story

I want permanence, like a footprint on a rock, an artefact that can’t be erased.

I want immortality, a life breathed through the pen of my writer who’s so maddened by desire for me that he can’t live without the thought of me.

I want to be written because I struggle with the idea of being replaced.

I am but a vain vessel of life, wanting to leave a mark that won’t be replaced.

I want to be inked into eternity, held fast in words that no rain can wash away.

I want my essence sealed between pages, folded into margins, lingering like a distinct scent that clings to the skin of a man.

I want to be the spark that ignites my writer’s madness to create.

I want to be more than a passing muse, more than a temporary flare of inspiration. I want to haunt my writer’s every thought, weaving myself into the yarn that makes up the threads of his sleepless nights.

I want to be the ache that drives his hand to the page, the reason he spills his soul in ink, desperate to capture the weight and the beauty of me.

I want to echo through his words, like a haunting melody, soft but impossible to forget.

I want to be read by his fans… To inspire them so they too could feel the love and be want to be loved so completely by him.

I want to live in the pauses between sentences, in the whispered breaths between chapters, an indelible presence that can’t be unwritten.

I want my name to be the one that trembles on the edge of his lips, each syllable dripping with devotion and a kind of madness only found in love too deep to contain.

I am but a phantom longing for substance, a heartbeat craving to be caught in ink, carved into the foundation of his story.

I am greedy. I want every page he starts to be littered with the little inks of my very essence.

I want to consume his every thought and to inspire his every art.

I want to be the character he cannot abandon, the one who demands to be rewritten, refined, perfected until I am whole.

I want to be the truth they hide in fiction, the secret they’ll never confess except through the lines of their prose.

I want to be timeless, immortal, living on in the memories that survive long after the pen is set down and the pages yellow with age.

I long to be loved by a writer.