She will want you to leave her.
She glories in the pining, the chasing,
Then the loss, the suffering, all the while:
The state of non-being is all the more beautiful to her.
They say to be in love with an artist is to be immortal;
But that immortality is a perpetual estrangement,
A constant demarcation of what you are
And what You are as an ideal to be written about.
She will say, “I like you better when you are not around;
I like you when I think about you,
When I dream about you,
But not when I open my eyes
To find you there.”