That's thing about time; you can only hold so much of it in your hands.
"Last week, I paid two dollars to go to the
museum by myself because I missed you
in the worst. A kind I couldn’t be alone for.
All visits before, I kept a learned distance.
My mother had told me, years before
I knew your name, that art was something to be polite around.
When I was younger, she only dared to take me
to the zoo to see the wild things.
Gentle was never something taught to me.
My heart has never been a gallery.
My passion is fists filled with purple crayons
and bruised knuckles, please be patient with me.
It would be so easy to love you like a lion,
to lock you away and only come to visit
when I need to remember I am your keeper.
Before you, I only dared to look at paintings and lovers
with sun filled eyes. It was easier this way.
I only saw blurred colors and good intentions.
But that night, in middle of all of those canvases,
I let my hunger get the best of me. I swore I could
smell you in amognst the lilies. When the guard
came to pull my nose out of the oils,
I laughed and told him I just wanted to
get a closer look at your smile.
I must have missed it in the past with all that squinting.
But there you were, right in the middle of the Monet.
Boy, you’re something like a masterpiece."
"i. there is nothing more powerful than your naked body an arms length away from the vultures.
ii. my hands still smell like fire, I can’t stop coughing up your ashes.
iii. there is a mountain inside of me, in prayer i bend the pines instead of knees."