aesthete

poetry resides at the tips of your fingers, you are an allegory for light,
i know this intimately, because i saw the sun rise in your throat when
i ventured to your collarbones for a smidgen of warmth – i'm cold,
always, but never with you. never with you. i am entirely filled with
a soft forlorn yearning for you – you are within grasp, but distant at
the same time. all i can think of is the manner you imbue poetry in
everything – art prion or a midas touch? you are deliberate in most
things like Michelangelo carving Pieta. what you stir in my heart is
the sublime – i am seized by a drive to gather all your light to bathe
in. i worshipped your sun and moon in secret long enough to come
to the realization that you’re truly infinite unlike most celestial things.
my skies only need to harbour your light once, and i'll have sunsets
and sunrises forever – a true perpetual motion machine. you are the
churning sea that spits seafoam at the feet of lost strangers, you are
the midnight sun that blesses the arctic circle in the summer months.

you are poetry | you are art.