He was an artist,
But his greatest works did not line cold white walls,
Or lay scattered among the odds and ends of a cluttered desk.
No,
They made themselves known in every breath he took,
In every slight move of hand,
And existed consistently in those chocolate eyes that glimmered with specks of honey and gold,
Love was no longer an emotion,
But every second I felt the touch of your hand,
Watched the shadows dance across your face,
Watched the smoke roll from your lips,
Love put on a suit that looked an awful lot like you,
I don't know if you realized,
But I kissed your forehead every morning before I left.
While you lay enraptured with a slumber that even produced works of art.