Thank you for being my canvass on those days I left my sketchbook on the kitchen counter beside unmade coffee and burned eggs I didn't have enough time to eat. I love you for the hugs when nothing seemed to be going right and how you would let me write poetry on you in colors that blind us with words too big to fit in the spaces we found (the ones written in whipped cream and other sweet treats). You were not only a means of creation but often times my muse as well. And someday when my name is known and the whereabouts of my grave have been forgotten the entire world will remember that you were history's most valuable piece of meaninglessly meaningful artwork.
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