A paper bag, an old woman’s hands, the obnoxious gap between my teeth;
Art, if you will.
Hearts racing, ***** gym floors, crying so hard you lose your breath.
Art.
It pumps thru our veins, wakes us up in the middle of the night to haunts our thoughts: its the reason I can never blow bubbles with this now tasteless piece of Trident.
That first tender kiss.
The missing sock, forever gone.
Its something about life.
That  holds us like that glue you used to put your mother’s favorite vase back together when she wasn’t home.
Its not knowing if you’ll have a place to lay your head down at night or when your next meal will be.
Real and raw.
Wide eyes and white smiles.
Art of wrinkles, art of death, art of hotel mattresses.
Art of this life, and your next one.