To the Artist Across the Table

I can see you sketching all
Kinds of things there

Stuff that I can’t do as well
Unless it’s with words

But the cities you can make
Are even more tangible

And now another piece of paper
Has been taken out and you

Could be

Drawing me
But that might be so egotistical

To think that any of your art
Was meant for me

It could also be too awkward to tell

That you’re making art about them

Even if the inspiration
Is so minuscule


It does the same thing
With practice you get better

And to gift, it feels strange

Though I wonder

What the fuck my words could mean
To you

Even if you never read this

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