Art has stopped worrying.
It is letting me leave you and miss last trains home.
It is showing me who and what I want,
it is not caring that I am not smiling in every photograph.
It is saying it’s ok not to want to turn around.
It is telling me I want something else right now.
It is saying, if all we have is until the sun comes up,
perhaps we shall do coffee before sunrise
and splash it with bourbon. It is not concerned
with looking like everything I ever wanted.
I didn’t give a shit about what in in my life now
would make my eight year old self cry.
It just offers the seat nearby and lets my eyes do what they want.
It isn’t interested in being complicated.
Art is not interested in me and doesn’t care if I’m not into it.
It stopped asking if you knew about such things before.
It realizes people exist without knowing about everything.
It wants my heart, maybe a little bit, but it knows
you can’t just grab into my chest and take it.
Art isn’t into the fairy tales.
It wants to tell me what I already know.
It loves it when I quote, the quotes that I know
because that’s what defines me.
Art might just be an excuse for my company.
It loves to listen for the words I say when nobody can hear me.
It goes to work, it dreams, it wakes up, and
like all things that want them to love you,
it sort of says, ‘pay attention, my eyes are on you.’