Aesthetic Of A Dandelion

He was a curator
who speaks softly about
springtime dreams,
flowing stars,
maple trees,
and Vincent van Gogh,
he’s always loved the constellation
of Canis Minor
and drawn Killua Zoldyck on
illustration boards
using pencils
out of boredom,
he owns a gallery
which houses 40 paintings,
with 3 barely hanging on the wall.

Who am I to know about pastels
and easels?
About canvasses and paints?
I might have made
an impressionist artwork
if I am too educated about it,
I can’t even use a protractor
nor a compass,
can’t even comprehend
your horoscopes and introspections,
all I can do is measure lightyears
through my poems,
watch September pass by in a jiffy,
and adore Don McLean.

I can’t understand the gray
in the strands of your hair
neither I can stay by your side,

because the artist that I am
isn’t enough to decipher your abstraction.

Still… I can write
about your gestures, silly remarks,
and the way you walk on willowed roads…

Haven’t visited your gallery in a long while now…

I wonder,

are the three paintings
with dandelions in them

still hanging barely

on your storied walls...