I am every piece of art you have ever encountered. I remember the poem you wrote but you didn’t finish it.
Instead we talked about the last time we seen the cat.
She isn’t around much and you aren’t either. I’ve seen you on stage before.
Everywhere that you go, you notice me even if I’m not actually there.
It’s odd how I’ve become the man that’s holding the door open for you at the gas station.
I’m the light that sits on the horizon and the unmade bed.  
I knock again. Still, no answer.
I’ve gone and the only thing you see are the shadows of your soul.