how many times have I compared you to a wonderful piece of art?
your veins, your angles, your eyes, they all lead to your heart.
your face is worthy of a cathedral’s ceiling,
but I can’t compare it to what I’m feeling.
I scream to the heavens that they need to close the gate.
what’s the point of waiting in line when heaven is your touch, and it feels so great.
your eyes are the Monet that was never hung up.
the way they blend together from far away, but up close I get so strung up,
trying to figure out how they blend together,
browns and golds and greens and yellows, I give up, whatever.
your smile is my favorite Van Gogh,
how your dimples glisten and your teeth glow.
I love when your lips twitch at the sight of something that makes you happy,
it can make even my worst days feel a bit less ******.
but there’s a bit of Frida Kahlo that you can’t contain
because in those Monet eyes of yours I also see pain.
and I hate when I see it but I also see your Sylvia Plath,
because when that smile disappears all I can see is wrath.
and after you laugh I hear your Emily Dickinson,
the silence that follows is your eternity prison.
but don’t get me wrong.
you aren’t just the primaries; red, yellow, and blue.
the gallery dedicated to you is long overdue.
because what I see in those eyes of yours
is that pain isn’t something you’ve yet to give in to.
and I know the world in itself is a huge piece of art.
but the only painting I’m looking at is you.