Muse In Velvet

[ Lyrics ]

You paint me in Prada, call me your art.

Silk on my shoulder, fur ’round my waist,
lens focused slow on the curve of my waist.
You say I’m a sonnet, you say I’m divine,
rewriting your world line by forbidden line.
Directed my posture, adjusted the light,
said, ‘Don’t move a muscle — this moment’s just right.’
No name for the feelings, just shutter and spark,
I smiled for the film but I faded in dark.

You wrote me in metaphors, velvet and flame,
signed every poem with my given name.
But I felt like a character shaped out of gold —
pretty, preserved, and quietly sold.

You paint me in Prada, call me your art,
dress me in midnight, own every part.
I’m not your lover, I’m your muse in velvet,
caught in your vision, no self to forget.
You love me in frames, not in real life light,
sculpted me perfect — but not for my life.

You chose every ribbon, the way that I sit,
the half-parted lips, all my angles lit.
Said you’d never loved till you saw me exposed,
but baby, it’s not me — it’s the role that you chose.
You hung me in galleries only you see,
signed your name under stills of me, barely me.
I laughed at your jokes, let you call me ‘inspired,’
while pieces of Jasmine quietly retired.

You kissed my reflection inside the view screen,
replaced my voice with a cinematic dream.
I let you believe it — I played my part,
but the canvas don’t breathe with a painted heart.

You paint me in Prada, call me your art,
dress me in midnight, own every part.
I’m not your lover, I’m your muse in velvet,
caught in your vision, no self to forget.
You love me in frames, not in real life light,
sculpted me perfect — but not for my life.

Am I the painter or just the paint?
Am I the spark or just the flame you restrain?
You said I completed you, made you start new —
but completion don’t mean you complete me too.

You paint me in Prada, call me your art,
dress me in midnight, own every part.
I’m not your lover, I’m your muse in velvet,
caught in your vision, no self to forget.
But the lens is cracking, the film’s running thin —
still your masterpiece… but starting to live.

Your art… your art… 
But not your heart.