Today the teacher asked me what art was, and I mentioned him.
For me, he was, is, and will always be art.
His hair, his eyes, his lips, and his cheeks.
His arms, his legs, his neck.
All of him is art.
The way his hair moves through the air,
Or the way complete idiocy makes him smile.
His seriousness and his bearing,
His body when he sweats,
The way he sings softly.
His voice.
His voice is so perfect to me.
Every word that comes out of his mouth
Is like thousands of babies laughing endlessly.
Even in his saddest moments,
He is art.
The way he prefers to cry in a place where no one sees him.
The way his words become deeper, with a darker sense.
The way his dark circles show from sleepless nights.
His arms.
The way his arms hug me constantly.
The way he moves them just to get my attention (and he really does).
The way they wrap around my waist and carry me like a baby.
His lips.
The way his lips brush mine,
Making me want to kiss him.
The way he presses them when he’s upset.
The way he kisses me again and again—
Even then, I never get tired of his kisses.
And his eyes.
His eyes are my favorite part.
Why?
Because they’re bad and good at the same time.
He can lie to me while looking at me with those brown eyes.
He can make me lose control just by looking at me,
But in the same way he makes me lose control,
He controls me.
He can make me cry just by looking at me.
He can make my life spin a thousand times with a glance.
He can make my heart stop.
And just by looking at me...
I fell in love with him.
Do you know what’s wrong?
I never knew him.
And I never will.
But that’s what art is about—
To love the unknown.
And for me,
He was art.
For me,
He was a stranger.
