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Monday, 20 August 2018

The Artistry of Us

I sit here with you
and I think to myself
that I haven't written a poem in ages. 
How can I be a writer
if I don't even write?
What kind of artist
sits here watching TV
instead of making art?

Yet as you sit here with me,
your warm hair burrowing into my shoulder, 
I mould my hand round the words of your waist. 
You mouth a sonnet as you ask
if I'd like another cup of tea
and it dawns on me that 
simply being here with you
is a kind of artistry;

that life so far has been the start
of a continuing work of art.
As we sit together I realise
that to be your husband
is to be an artist
and that no other poem,
nothing else I write, 
can compete with the artistry of us.