If you could be art, then I would study you. I would trace my fingertips over your textured edges, feel the ink, the rough chunks of paint in the creases of my palm.
I would bask in all the colors of you. The blues for when you are sullen and quiet. The yellows for when your heart is light and open. The reds for when your mind is rushed and angry.
My eyes would soak in all the patterns of you, the way your body swirls and coalesces. The way your lines and curves billow, twist, blend, and transform.
I would put my lips to your canvas, taste where the sweat dripped from the paintbrush, and the thick, metallic earthiness of your skin.
I would run my tongue over the ridges of your beautifully crafted surface, kiss where the colors meet the edge of the frame. Claim it all as mine.
If you could be art, I would love you, near and far. Hold you, then let you go. I would pull myself away to see you from a distance, see the way your colors and lines mix, where your shadows darken, where the pieces of you tell a story.
And then I would rewrite myself into you.