making love is an art. it does not require clay or paint or eraser shavings. i gave you all the pieces of me i could; the bend of my knee, my eyelashes, the back of my neck.
you whisper sweet nothings soft in my ear and my spine shakes and skin quivers. i tell you these goosebumps are not from the cold.
your bedroom, an art gallery we display these bodies, our bodies, like acrylic on canvas. sweat runs and drips and we call it abstract. it is humid and foggy, loud with the music of our voices that linger through the midnight moon shadows. in this moment, there is no such thing as flaws. we are surrounded by so much art.
you are the question i never want to ask. you are the religion no one speaks of. you are all four seasons combined to make every moon phase and every sunrise. you are the distance between then and when. you are the one i desire.
and who needs sleep when you can make art? sweaty, messy, in-the-moment art. i dig my fingers so far into the mattress, i can remember this moment just as well as the last. my fingers sprawl and tangle in your hair. your face glistens and i breathe deep. this will always be our way of showing each other’s love.
-do we make art or does art make us?