Dec 2016
I interrogate art,
It's just my nature
And you are art,
So inhale deeply on those cigarettes that you love so much because I always quietly imagine what it must be like to be nestled so tenderly between your full lips.
Inhale my love,
because I love how calm you become when you strike a match against the Lions match box as if this is the 80's and you're
Kurt Cobain because I know his songs don't quite capture the angst that rests just below the surface of your grin.
And God when you grin it's like watching a ******* make love to a client,
It's like breaking all my own rules
I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't but I can't walk away because I am the client and when you look at me like that it's like I'm set ablaze.
And I haven't even described your touch
and in all honesty I can't
because who would be bold enough to claim that they have wrapped their hands firmly around the wind.
How could I begin to describe the way it feels when you touch me because something about your presence alone
is intimate even if we're standing next to each other in a packed room.
Your touch is like a scalpel against treated flesh, precise, intense, purposeful but most importantly healing.
You hurt
almost with the intent of healing
because how else do I describe the fact that I am a woven tapestry and with one tug of my thread you have me unravelled.
I still haven't figured it out,
when it was that you figured out how I worked.
Perhaps it was in the moments where I was so engrossed in studying your every action you realized that you had created your own personal anthropologist but that implies that I had the upper hand
and we both know that isn't the case.
You are my muse and even your lipstain left on an empty glass of lager is enough to keep me occupied.
You are my muse and every emotional outbreak fuels my desire to document all your actions even faster, like a deranged professor I detail your actions trying to calculate when exactly it is that I became engrossed within the art work that is you.
You are my muse and every utter of your lips is like you wrapping your hand around mine and running the pen along the page.
You are my muse and I enjoy watching you smoke because I always wonder if I'll savour the taste of your lips the way you do those cigarettes. Somehow I'm sure I will.
It's an addiction really, to the way you occupy space,
like a curator in a gallery with one artwork alone -
I am completely absorbed.
I feel like an artist charged with restoration of something magnificent except I donno where the restoration is taking place, within You or I.
You are my muse and God I wonder why no one warned me that art speaks back.
It's just my nature
And you are art,
So inhale deeply on those cigarettes that you love so much because I always quietly imagine what it must be like to be nestled so tenderly between your full lips.
Inhale my love,
because I love how calm you become when you strike a match against the Lions match box as if this is the 80's and you're
Kurt Cobain because I know his songs don't quite capture the angst that rests just below the surface of your grin.
And God when you grin it's like watching a ******* make love to a client,
It's like breaking all my own rules
I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't but I can't walk away because I am the client and when you look at me like that it's like I'm set ablaze.
And I haven't even described your touch
and in all honesty I can't
because who would be bold enough to claim that they have wrapped their hands firmly around the wind.
How could I begin to describe the way it feels when you touch me because something about your presence alone
is intimate even if we're standing next to each other in a packed room.
Your touch is like a scalpel against treated flesh, precise, intense, purposeful but most importantly healing.
You hurt
almost with the intent of healing
because how else do I describe the fact that I am a woven tapestry and with one tug of my thread you have me unravelled.
I still haven't figured it out,
when it was that you figured out how I worked.
Perhaps it was in the moments where I was so engrossed in studying your every action you realized that you had created your own personal anthropologist but that implies that I had the upper hand
and we both know that isn't the case.
You are my muse and even your lipstain left on an empty glass of lager is enough to keep me occupied.
You are my muse and every emotional outbreak fuels my desire to document all your actions even faster, like a deranged professor I detail your actions trying to calculate when exactly it is that I became engrossed within the art work that is you.
You are my muse and every utter of your lips is like you wrapping your hand around mine and running the pen along the page.
You are my muse and I enjoy watching you smoke because I always wonder if I'll savour the taste of your lips the way you do those cigarettes. Somehow I'm sure I will.
It's an addiction really, to the way you occupy space,
like a curator in a gallery with one artwork alone -
I am completely absorbed.
I feel like an artist charged with restoration of something magnificent except I donno where the restoration is taking place, within You or I.
You are my muse and God I wonder why no one warned me that art speaks back.
