Parallels between first loves and modern art

I hold my hand in prayer,

a righteous solute to my longing,

I can’t help but think of you here,

in these hollow halls of human.

Observation is a strange thing,

my body in this space feels a part of it,

a false performance of my

attentiveness to another’s

subconscious manifestations.

Loving you was a lot like that,

watching myself being watched,

“am I doing this right?

understanding enough?

shouldn’t I be crying?”

And suddenly in a moment,

looking at all the wrong

things in the room,

a child flopped on the floor,

a woman’s dress against the canvas,

I begin to get it,

and hoping others do too.

I am the observer,

not just the observed.

There is something to be

found in the finding,

something to be

seen in the search.

One day I’ll get to be both

artist and art too.