Living in Cleveland comes with benefits.
One has access to sports teams which have redeemed themselves after the dry spell of one thousand virgins, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, dozens of cultural ghettoes, a city filled with luminescence, and an art museum.
Last year, one could find me critiquing the incritqueable work of Monet and other icons that have painted on the canvases that lined the walls- and then I met my person.
He was a paradox I had not yet encountered. Not only was he the most effervescent piece of art my eyes had ever been blessed to see, but he was also the art medium that shaded and filled my canvas which was prior entirely void of color.
He showed me hues I had not known existed, and he crosshatched paths for us to endure side by side. I no longer see sunsets the same. Watching a sunset with him illuminated them in ways my words cannot express. He makes light more luminescent, and dark more blissfully dismal; my charcoal and white pastel all in one.
I have only been to the Cleveland Museum of Art once since our relationship embarked- not only is this human art work, he is a museum. Every laugh, every smirk, every hair flip, is yet another masterpiece that I divulge into. Every word that flows forth from his lips is yet another brush-stroke on the canvas of my love for him.
My museum, my unartistic artist, my art gallery, my home.
I only want to see the colors you provide.
With love forever,
The woman with the tattoo of the bird told me that when I was afraid, all that I had to do was think of my favorite place, and all of my dears would diminish.
One day, I became conflicted.
I was in her arms, one day, you see,
and I tried thinking of my favorite place to escape her fingers which were as cold as Wichita's winters...
but I was already there.
As a surviving **** victim, this is the best way I could ever possibly explain what it is like to suffer from Stockholm's Syndrome.
— The End —