Forgive me
I’m a bit post mature at the thought of
critical thinking and philosophies

There is no older me in my suit up flesh
my mind is still as young as my body
perhaps younger, for the cold can’t rob me of my wits
but can of my shiver shivering hands

Art is…
this is what art is
art is you

Threadbare jeans and paper skin
fluorescent light against feline hair
art is me
too shy to speak
I look, I look away
dissect my feet
art is creation and we are the created

I’ll paint us clear, forever pure
I’ll outline your hands with charcoal
and keep you someplace warm

may you never fade,
and may I never forget the look of you,
even after the future, and even after forever, and even after
the floods of fire turns everything left of this scenery into ash.