• To Love an Artist

    Pardon me for saying that your lips
    are lips and your hair is hair. Your eyes shine
    with the reflection of lights
    not your own. When you laugh I hear
    sadness, anger, occasionally
    humor but I don’t hear
    angels singing on high choir.
    Your frame is gangly and
    ungraceful. Your skin is slick
    with the hours of hard labor at
    that fast food restaurant. Those freckles
    across your cheek make your skin
    splotchy, blemished and pale. However,

    the world is miniscule in comparison
    to the power your hands possess.
    They caress the bones and undress
    the soul. They knead into every crevice
    and send sorrows and worries
    into submissiveness.
    Your hands breathe
    life into death and ignite
    fires in the night to shine bright, brighter
    than any speck of light that survives
    times and times past only to die
    before even being sighted by our eye.