I don’t know why
But I always find
Art in the smallest things
About you.

I find poetry in
The knots of your hair
And constellations in
The freckles on your chest.

Your hands hold different
Worlds and the lines
In your palm are like streets
Of cities I have yet to discover.

Your skin a blank canvas
That I can freely paint
With deep red and rich purple
Just like I did in my dreams.

A voice is something you
Listen to on command – because you have to.
But now I can’t escape –
Yours makes a home in
My head and
I know it’s
There to
Stay.