Art that never imitates

Flirt: to act amorously without serious intentions. Put simply, 'tis insincere affection.
Not genuine.
Deceit.
A fake Fendi in a sea of artful masterpieces.

Flirtation is the margarine of love.  People who've actually tasted the richness of real, cream can believe it's not butter.  It doesn't even come close.  There is no comparison.  But you can't spot a knock off until you've known the real deal.  Phonies are tricky that way.  They appeal to nearly all the five senses; sans the one savvy enough to know insincerity from ecstasy.

I've always wanted a Chanel handbag.  I've never understood the appeal of a fake one.  People think they can deceive the world into believing their bag of plastic is the same luxurious fabric of such iconography.  They're not interested in the quality of the bag.  They're disinterested in the art itself.  They only care how the world perceives them and the lie on their shoulder.

I want more.
I want art.
I want butter.
I want a love that possesses the courage to reveal all it veraciously is.

Love is not love when it hides behind the mask of flippancy.  If I longed for trite connections I'd go to the bar.  I'm sure there are PLENTY of men there who find me adorably beautiful.  And would have no qualms exploiting such art.

I want more.
I want truth.
I want passage.
I want a love that can only exist in the form it's fighting to be.

I'm not a young girl anymore.  Colored glass simply won't cut it.  I long for diamonds and rubies.  I long for art that can be worn.  I long for taste that's satiating. 
So I buy my own jewels.  And I save to make art something I can carry.  And I don't stifle my hunger with splenda and margarine and thinness in a can.  I eat hearty decadence that sings with my tastebuds.  Harmonies so wickedly beautiful I can hear the overtones dancing in my head.

And I marvel, I wonder over those who think impossibilities remain as only such, who hold tightly to holograms and fantasy when the art they covet is within their grasp. 

I no longer crave such phony amour.  Men who love and long and fright themselves of their own passion.  This maiden desires courage and strength, one whose straightforward pursuit of truth coincides with mine. 
I mean what I say.
I foolishly believe others also reveal the longings in their hearts. 
I live with this misconception that everyone is as forthright as moi.

But looking inside the dark recesses within your gut is frightfully telling, it unveils truths you don't want to digest, it hides art you long to possess.

So they cover all they feel and profess the rhinestones sparkle with the vibrancy of diamonds, precious stones they fear they could never afford, and they swallow dry toast without rich calories of taste, feigning moans of enjoyment over savoring the emptiness of dispassionate breakfasts. 

And they look at the art from afoot afar off marveling over the improbability it once rested in their hands.  But their disbelief frightened fingers from wrapping around such loving trust.

So they go without.
They continue dissatisfied.
They want and never possess.

I live for art.
I make beauty a necessity.
I seek arms strong enough to caress.