Art.

To anyone who admires a flawed person:

Art. He looked like art

Not in the way you would typically imagine

He was not a masterpiece

Very far from it

He was not made of flawless whirling lines

Or warm shades of orange and yellow like the nightfall.

He was art.

He was dreary most of the time

Desolate even

A dim blue was the only color to paint him in

The more you watched him, and concentrated all over

The more you began seeing the cracks alongside the painting.

He was art.

Dark colors smears spread over particular structures

The torn edges have a place to him

Like the stars have a place with the moon

He was art.

He fought battles that left him marks

Yet it did not make him less alluring

Not at all.

It made him real.

Art. He looked like art

And art is not meant to be a masterpiece

It is meant to make you feel something

He was art

And he made me feel love for the very first time

Alive with every color

We were art.