Rhetorical Somethings And Nothings

Somewhere there’s a sunflower poking out from the corner of a concrete barrier, going unnoticed by everyone except myself. And it makes me wonder: They say when you fall in love with an artist, you can never die. But what happens when an artist falls in love? Do they continue capturing futures, or only retrospective moments? Time is an old concept—or shall I say, odd? Because I see you in soft shadows and storefront glass, in wilted flowers I forget to water, in poems that end. I used to paint what might be, but now I only trace the edges of what has been. They said that love would make my work eternal. But no one told me it would make me feel so unfinished. Oh, and that thing I asked about the artist? You can forget about it. I think I’m starting to care less and less about him.