There were men and there was him. Each time the ink touched the paper it bled for him. I fell in love with my muse. I was an average writer and he was the masterpiece. He was the sound of the violin that starts off softly and gradually proceeds to make the most powerful tune you have ever listened to. He was the scratches of color on the white canvas. He was mad, he was rage and he was fire. He was the color red, and yellow and all shades of orange. His mere face would set my soul on fire. I was burning for him and he was oblivious. Probably he was too busy to even notice. But I fell in love with all his colors and textures. I saw him when I was awake, hoping wishing, praying life would bring us back together, again. I burned for a stranger I have hardly even met. After him, no man ever looked enough, seemed enough. However fascinating they were, however beautifully I was held, a part of me longed for him. He was way out of my league. I was a poet and he was masterclass storyteller. He would walk past me in a crowd, but I would spot among a billion stars. All the ones I met before and after were men, remarkable some, normal others, but him, he was magic.