An artist too lazy to make any art
So what am I?
The sleepy commitment holding your hand in public places
An enormous gratitude lounging in between spaces with a stain on her shirt
Always seeking to be the next big thing

A stoic
Unable to process any other philosophy
that doesn't kiss me when I'm nervous
Lights turning on in the afternoon
And the warm glow of knowing people are inside
There
Ready to open up the door and invite you into the individual smells that occupy their reality

I am I-don't-remember-the-city-anymore girl
Sterile buildings and antiseptic coast
Are both memory and fiction
I am everything's-sort-of-familiar and yet exactly obscure
A contrarian careful to never admit that everything
Will make sense with enough persuasion
In the corners of my mind sits a woman
Smoothing out creases of my brain like the folds on bed sheets
Or the wrinkles in a shirt
And I allow her to because I love her
And I believe that what she does is affection
And maybe I'm right
Or maybe I'm wrong and I was never an artist
But something else entirely because that's so much easier