I am the love he seeks, the muse he is inspired by
With each smile upon the lips showered in beauty.

I am the solace of his eyes, his spirit’s ambrosia,
The nectar that runs through his quickening vein
Pierced by the thorn in the red rose of my heart.
I am the origin of his pleasure, the origin of his pain.
I am the shore of his sea-like devotion, the youth
Of his hopes, his aspirations, his toil of dreams.

I am his poetical elation, his musical symphony,
His artistic expression, his carving in harmony.
I am the sacred shrine where he chose to be my devotee.
I am the peace and fortitude of his saint-like journey.
Yet I am the raging tempest he is fighting in his stormy life.

I am the blessing on his character, the curse on his feelings.
I am the nourishment of his soul, the cancer of his heart.
I am the treasury of his affluence, the defeat in his existence.
I am the gift in his poverty of love, the angel in his hardship.
Yet I am the cause and consequence of his unrequited worship.

I am the inspiration for what he is, what he will be.
I am the answer to his questions, the echo of his emotions.
I am the muse created by him, by his art of love for me.