not everything is art
not every word spewed is a metaphor
but ****, you are the ******* poem
with no punctuation
racing between sentences
and stoping
when the flow begs you to go on.

not everything is art
not all brushstrokes make a masterpiece
but ****, your fingerprints swirl sunsets
smudged into my rough canvas of a body
dripping pigment into my pores
stroke by stroke.

not everything is art
but ****, you are.

I thought your chest
was a hole
to another galaxy

and the only way
I could touch
the stars

was to tear you apart.

I would die for you. I am going to die for you.*
Not today.
Not tomorrow.

but one day it will all make sense and everything will be beautiful
and I will be warm in the winter,
and you will be by a fire watching the icicles drip down.

and you will see me in the newly poured puddle.
You will see me in the mud at the bottom of the hill.
You will see me in the patches of snow scattered about the yard.

You will see the thaw. The rebirth. The spring. The sun.
Just know I burnt myself up so your frigid dusk could be undone.

You watched me as I
dissolved.

And I hated you with
every
melting particle.

And I loved you with
each
evaporating atom.

I am not a quotation in your own autobiography. I am a ******* novel.
I am not a faded memory in a photo album. I am a ******* timeless piece of art.
I will not be referred to in past tense, for I am real and present.
In life, In Death, In the Between.
I am necessary, needed, noticed, and ******* glowing.