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.
