Our love’s only remains belong to photographs. But not, printed, or digital,
Photographs in my mind.
See, I never thought once during the holy nights we spent together to take out my phone and capture the beauty of your skin under the moonlight.
Somehow I knew our time was too precious
The pictures in my mind are something of a different kind,
Magical and dazed
All around you I see dull purples and blues, but your silhouette only, a burning red

Before cameras existed and all we had was art to remember each other by, there was no truth. Only the perfect imperfect visions of one another. 
I think that’s how I would like to remember you.
Thick paint on a blank canvas, never concrete — no one to say yes or no, to tell me whether or not the beautiful things  you whispered to me were true or false

Maybe that’s why I can’t forget you. I can’t look the other way when you're walking by. I only wish that time would slow down so I could pretend we are walking together. You are art to me. I choose to see the beauty in you, when I should be seeing your flaws, your imperfections, pointed out clearly in film.

Because aren’t we all lovers? And aren’t we all poets? To me, breathing is writing, every move we make tells the long and ever-so-dramatic tales of our lives. And doesn’t life imitate art? Do we not read to be aware? Of fictional characters and how all their sighs, and breathes alike spill out like ink onto a page? And we understand them. Humans and art alike. And aren’t we just art? Each and every single one of us?

What I mean to say is I watched feature-length films begin and end with the bat of your eyelashes. A kiss to the back of my hand. Your arm around my waist is an art form in itself.

My mind is a dangerous place. Please, don’t come too close. I may paint you too deeply into my painting, I may love you too much, I may never want to remember you any other way.