I use to be a writer.
I use to be a painter.
Before I became the plate setter.
Before I became a smile not quite reaching the eyes.
Before I be came a lover.
I use to trace darkened windowsills, swollen with empathy for a starless sky.
I use to share ribbons of smoke and theories with strangers, cross legged on sweating sidewalks.
I use to be a corner desk, basking in the sunlight. Warm with intention.
I use to be an early spring river, cool to the touch but inviting no the less.
I use to be a painter.
I use to be a painter
Before I be came a lover.
And directly after.
