Savannah Watson

He looks at her like she’s a work of art — an intricately detailed statue sculpted by a master, a bleeding watercolor portrait to get lost in for hours. He could use every color and artistic style known to man to capture her likeness, and it would never do her justice in his eyes. In his mind, he spent hours drawing, painting, and sculpting her in every setting and every lighting. Her immortalized image should fill the halls and walls of museums, but he didn’t know if he could bear others looking upon her, risk them seeing what he saw. He was a humble artist, kneeling at the feet of his beloved muse.

She looks at him like he’s a written masterpiece — a lilting poem of the most beautiful language, a warm prose that speaks to the soul. Every word to describe him is on the tip of her tongue, but none are good enough to capture everything he was to her. In her mind, she would write poems, prose, and love letters addressed to him. Stories immortalizing him should fill the shelves of libraries, but she didn’t know if she could bear others reading the intimacy in her words, risk them knowing him as she did. She was a humble poet, her words raising her beloved muse onto a pedestal.

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