you told me everything is art.
i didn't believe you.
art was paint on a canvas.
but you said art was flowers, sculptures, dancing, music, buildings.
you promised it was makeup, writing, mountains.
you spoke art it seemed. you were fluent in English, French, Spainsh, German, Italian, and artiste.
but i still look paint and whispered "art."
even though you said art was more.
weaving, sewing, acting, cooking.
maybe you're just a teenage girl who romanticized everything.
but i started to believe you,
the way raindrops from on glass, to the way light catches colors
my science left for art
it didn't matter if it was two sweaty bodies grinding against each other
or a skinny ballerina full of grace en pointe.
it was still art.
accidental, coincidental, nature, or man made.
it became the same.
your freckles became art.
your eyes
your mouth.
the sky became art
the moon
the clouds.
you opened my eyes
but i let myself drown
now everything seems magical
but it's just paint on a canvas.
