The things of this world sink easily
into the flood of time: our shoes
are always wet. Our hair hangs in our eyes.
Still we keep writing
about things that don’t change.
No one says anything about love,
or hate. Or bitterness.
These too, pass —
The bile washes away,
and the first kiss is too easily replaced
with the last. Or another.
But you have painted a field —
build your house
in the grass.
Ignore what you lack.
Open the door, decide to stay —
dare to unpack.
for Gian, Artist. Haha.