"Let's talk about the universe." She said.
I stared at her as she sipped her coffee.
I smiled.

She looked like art.
She's the painting I received from my grandmother
nine years ago,
She's my mother's wedding ring my father gave when he
promised as she walked down the aisle.
She's the new dress my mom bought in that old store at
sixth street.
She's the fountain pen I used to write with.
She's the cliff-hanger in every book I've read.

She looked like art.
She's the abstract painting I could not comprend but love.
She's got all the shades of black and white, but she
painted every corner in this room with the colors the
universe haven't discovered.
She's the flame on my cigarette, so beautiful I'm afraid to
touch.
She's the bittersweet coffee I had this morning,
so sweet it burned my tongue.
She's every piece of literature every writer wrote.
She's every living thing in this world.

She looked like art.
She was art herself.

"Why would we talk about you?" I answered.