And now whenever I visit
the little art museum down town
I go to the cafe overlooking
the ground floor gala and buy
a single black coffee

before climbing the rickety
stairs to the top floor. I sit by
the window, on the white ledge
where artist once set up
their easel to paint whatever
lovely interactions were happening
down below on the beautiful little street.
And I feel the sun coming in
through the glass gently
reminding me of the good
feelings around as I look across
the room at the people reacting
to the painting we love.

The painting hung crooked
(at the artist's request the
staff assures.) The painting of
a man's lips pressed to another's.

The painting that could be anything
but is surely something. The face
man is handsome with messy hair
and the other is featureless with
an interesting stare. There's no telling
who else that is, there's no promises of
a gender or point. It could be a liberal
statement allowing politicians to see
we should be able to love who we love
freely and equally. It could be a
philosophical representation of
finding ones' self.

It could be a moment the artist
remembered fondly and vaguely
or strangers they watched from
the same place I currently sit.

As I sit there in the warm glow of
the world losing myself in vivid colors
and design, I sip my coffee easily,
the way you taught me.

Wondering who else looks
at that canvass larger than
us all only to see themself
and someone
wonderful
they love.