Fall 2021 Inklings

you stole my sense of art (and i
think i love it)
Evan Gates
i used to write about chicago evenings and campsite burnings
and the fever pitch of teenage rage, the melancholy ring of teenage despair,
but you greedy bastard,
you changed all my poems to love songs.
i can’t paint the side of appalachia or the snowfall of my favorite month
because i want to paint everything i love about you instead,
a sprawling exhibition of colors and moments
that still taste electric, still spark something strong in my vision,
it was a dark and stormy night when my thunder
was stolen by you.
you know what, i can’t even get mad
because you’ve never taken a damn thing for granted
and you’re maybe the least selfish person i know
other than the saints they made me pray to in grade school.
i’m no worshipper but my mind’s got an altar dedicated
to the microscopic details of your face
and i’m not sacrilegious but my love for you feels like a prayer.
(my god, steal some sleep instead!
or something that will do you some good)
and quit swiping at the words i have left for everything else;
how is it that the only thing i want to write about is you?
let me capture the look in your eyes
when we see each other through the shades of distortion
i’ll call you a thief and sit there
like i didn’t hand my heart over to you in the first place.
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