Writing About Art

He tells me, stop
telling me I'm a work
of art; and I know he's right,
but I have never seen
such beauty:
he does not seem real.

He stands there, tall
and lanky in the
hazy morning light,
a halo of hair
by the window, smoking:
he think's I'm asleep.

He closes his eyes, content
as we relax in the
grass and summer air,
the wine bottle empty
and his lips tinted:
he kisses my cheek.

He tells me, stop
telling me I'm a work
of art; and I know he's right,
but I have never seen
such beauty:
he does not seem real.