He fell in love with the woman on her back- a tattoo,
a beautiful creature painted designed by Alphonse Mucha.
"Who is that?" he had to ask
- "My inner writer" was the reply.

She, who was melancholy and prone to depression
intricate, her mind a labyrinth
but that night, when she shed her clothes
he saw the woman on her back
and he heard her talk, poetry in the moonlight,
and philosophy under the stars.
She was eternal, he thought,
and was dying fast.
She was afraid, cautious
- the woman on her back had seen it all.

She would tell him stories, and confessed love
spilling through full lips, stumbling over the words.
Her voice, he noted, was not light, nor lyrical- it was realistic,
Macabre and heavy, and he loved her all the more for it.
She sighed with the expectation of being let down,
her eyes spoke of unfulfilled promises.

But he vowed to her that he would be realistic-
that they would fight, cry and laugh,
and he would cheat, and so would she,
and they would make up and build bridges,
and destroy them in turn,
and she loved him all the more.
No matter how many times he left,
she would be the one he would return to,
time and time again.

He did not promise her the moon- only moonlight,
and not ever lasting love, for they were both dying;
he said "time will forget us,
so let us not waste time
trying to etch our names into stone,
but make a home and let it fall down
when the rain comes".

He had an ugly laugh, and she was too big,
but they loved each other anyway.
For he could wrap his arms around her
and she could make him laugh
and she loved him all the more
because while he could not steal her from her mind,
he offered a light in the darkness, and a hand to hold.
He was her realistic love, and she to him,
and that is the only kind of love one can ask for.