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.
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