I remember the boy with art in his heart
I was there too
Tucked amongst everything else he loved
We were so young, but he loved me
I remember the pretty words he wrote for me
They felt empty
As I tried to hold them in my mind
He wanted something I didn’t know how to give
So I put his name on my list of failed attempts
And continued along a different road.

I remember the boy with art in his mind
He made passionate sense to me
His beautiful thoughts reflected at me through his eyes
I hear Socratic dialogues read in his voice
And when I listen to music we shared
It’s like he sings to me
Stories of what never was
And what could have been
I remember him telling me I’d always be triumphant in love
Now I laugh
Maybe he didn't know everything after all.

I remember the boy with art on his body
My fingers ghosted over storied skulls and roses and knives
He had suffered for his art
I remember letting him take me in any way he chose
“Gentle, gentle,” I whispered, over and over
But he chose not to hear
Too lost in his selfish pleasure
So I braced myself against the pain
And told myself that it felt good.

But what about the boy with art in his soul?
I imagined that he
Would speak to me in poems
That his laugh would be a song
That he would paint pictures with his caress across the canvas of my skin
For what is love, if not a work of art?