You make me want to be an artist, or at least learn how.
You make me want to learn how to use those small, soft sticks of charcoal and that thick, ridged paper so that I may capture the lines of your face in perfect black and white detail. Because words will not do them justice: the window frames of your eyes that hold the clearest view to your soul, the bridge of your nose that divides your face into imperfect symmetry, the height of your cheekbones that seem ever higher when you turn your face up towards the sun, the outline of your lips that I can never get enough of (whether that be staring or touching or kissing, it doesn’t matter).
But even if I learned how to charcoal in the lines of your face, I would need to learn how to transform water colors and colored pencils and paints into the shade of your irises, a shade found in only those two places in all of nature. Could I learn how to mix the correct colors and use my fingers to lay down into my outlines your stunning eyes? You make me want to.
And if I can color in your eyes, then I would wish to learn how to use a calligraphy brush, its hairs hard yet malleable, to brush onto those pages the flat planes and smooth curves of your body: the diagonal line from the side of your face and down to your chin to form your jaw, the curve of your neck that transforms into the curve of your shoulder, the angled outward jut of your hipbone, the sinuous curve of your spine, the long-lined shadows that your legs cast whenever you walk, the alternating and flowing shapes of your fingers as they dance with every sentence you speak.
If I can capture your body, surely I could learn to use pencils and pens, dark as the night sky and any raven’s feather, to draw each individual strand of your hair, to pause those strands’ movements just for a moment to lay them down into a permanent pose on paper. But how impossible that seems – I doubt the Renaissance artists themselves could capture the crazy flowing of your hair with every shake of your head, every spinning circle of your body, every time you run your hands through your hair and ruffle it.
To the core of the earth and to the farthest reaches of the universe, you make me want to be an artist, and I can only ask every god and goddess that I don’t believe in how they could have been willing to share the masterpiece that is your smile. I would use every medium, drawn or painted or photographed, if only I could capture every instance that that smile appeared, and I would learn the art of comedy if only to keep it there forever.
You make me want to learn to be an artist if only to have phantom images of you even after you leave my presence. Your very presence makes me want to be an artist, but I never have the time because all of it is soaked up in your laughter and your words and your hands, and every breath I take is art in and of itself if I can breathe you in, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life just breathing you in. (Because no art of scent-making could ever bottle the smell of your joy for the world and your appreciation for all the lives in it.)
You inspire me to be an artist (of words because that is the best way I know), and I can only hope that these words do that inspiration justice.