↳ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

xi

when i said that i could turn you into art,
what i meant to say was
you are art.
but not only that.
you're the pencils, the pens, the crayons, the chalk.
you are the ink splashed on the pages, the canvases.
the graffiti on the walls,
forbidden and unappreciated,
dangerous, yet beautiful.
and creativity flows and my imagination bleeds
with all things you.
your eyes are a painting,
unforgettable with a meaning deep below the surface.
and you walk with such grace,
like a paint stroke, perfectly precise.
and you smell like fine detail.
like a picture of summer eves,
the ocean breeze blowing through your hair.
and you feel like nostalgia;
a drawing of remembrance.
and there's a part of you
in every piece of art i see.