art

I was never the greatest artist.

My hand shook too much, my strokes too hard to erase, leaving gashes of lead on the paper despite fruitless time spent erasing. But I knew what good looked like.

And you, you were art.

Your hands feather-light, quick strokes of stiff lead, buffed out into soft edges,

Your eyes, so alive, oil paint swirls of earth-toned colors,

Your mouth, a swab of dark pink watercolor, brushed to fit just perfectly into a crooked smirk,

You took my breath away.

You were a painting, a drawing, a piece of sheet music,

Your laugh a soft chorale.

The artist that made you spent careful time in arranging every color, every note, to fit harmoniously and I made sure to be careful when I held your wrist, lest I smudge the charcoal.

I was too clumsy, hands and lips leaving marks in the canvas, trailing wet paint into the corners,

But I would never be able to unwrite you, uncreate you,

For your symphony is so much greater than anything I could ever muster.

If you were a masterpiece, I was a sketch on loose-leaf binder paper

And your inked shadows covered up my light.