There isn’t much to say when you’re staring at art
a few hmmms
a few nods
at geometric grids and clumps of plaster mashed together
white paint on white canvas, exteriors of the soul beyond language
beyond understanding of what the hell these things are supposed to mean
when I follow you around the corner
and you wander off to a distant corner,
while I’m stuck with Toulouse-Latrec and his Jane Avril
I notice how out of focus she is,
the excess of lines around her that make it look like
he didn’t really know how to draw her that
he didn’t really know how to understand her
and he didn’t even bother drawing her legs which I would assume is
an insult to a can-can dancer at the Moulin Rouge
I notice your legs, your dress
your pulsating silhouette in the gallery
that I know if I tried to trace would collect dust in a box
even if I don’t understand why
even while I’m staring at this painting of spam that’s not supposed to mean anything
even if I know you might not ever be here with me again
even now as you hold my hand
as you stand there,
waiting to be immortalized on canvas
or maybe, just for now, immortalized in my head,
while you nod in approval at Picasso
and photographs of life in the valley.