the artist’s eye [poem]

I’m not an artist
not in the way of pens or paints
but sometimes I suffer from the artist’s eye
my gaze tracing the lines of a stranger’s shirt
the play of lights and shadows in the midday sun
sometimes I stare at your lips as you speak
not because I wish to kiss them
but because they move so fluidly
and then I come back to myself
bemused to have lost time
wandering about the shapes of life
all around me