Art

I can’t draw.

I can paint, sometimes.

But it’s not very good.

I can write though.

Not too well,

but well enough.

I can’t express myself sometimes.

 

But I can hug.

And a hug can be

sometimes

more than a painting

or a song

or even a piece of literature.

 

And like all art that needs an audience

thank you for always being mine,

and giving meaning to

unfinished thoughts

that escape my lips – as sighs,

or frowns, or twitches of the eyebrows,

-the fleeting changes in the premature lines

across my face.

 

Thank you,

for making me art.