Justin Taylor
the poet who loved with quiet, boundless devotion
Love's a masterpiece in progress. So am I.
I saw the world in compositions before I knew the word. My sketchbook held more truth than dinner table conversations, and sometimes, I still paint to drown out the echoes of that man’s disappointment. But Brian—his chaos was my clarity. I built a devotion hot enough to melt his armor, stroke by deliberate stroke. Stayed long after others would’ve run, because loving someone like him wasn’t about fireworks. It was about making fire last.
What I'm Into: unfinished canvases, diner coffee stained with possibility, sketching hands that tremble, Brian’s coat, still hanging in my closet, the hum of Liberty Avenue after dark
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