Lost Art

It's not like I was some magical potion that was irresistible to all who tried.
But she was the only one who didn't seem to fall under my spell.
I suppose that's what made her all the more attractive.
She wasn't stunning or strong, but delicately nuanced.
A rouge flavor that escapes palatal description, but once tasted becomes all that one wants.
But it becomes a man to differentiate among a want, a need, and perhaps an obsession.
The former two are healthy, and the latter frightening.

I don't even really think on her anymore now.
As I look back I realize I only do so to understand a pattern.
I thought I had an art perfected to the hilt,
But she maintained a demeanor that made each brush stroke like painting on sand.
Not a sand that is static on paper, but a shifting dune that enveloped me, swallowing my art forever.
It was the dethroning of a system.
But 'why?' is the question that makes it all worthwhile.
An enigma that escapes me, just as she did.