Defining You

I hate it when people want me to define you; who you are to me..or worse, what I am to you. What difference does it make what ‘label’ I give you? Does it matter how you see me, or if you even see me at all? I have no clue how I appear in the lens of your mind’s camera. Labels change, anyway. I think you know what I mean.
I scrutinize your artwork just to see myself and I end up unable to recognize the artist. How does it go, “—start to change, — look a little strange as we get closer…”? In my case, further away. Drifting away. Is that okay? Because I’ve talked to people and not only do they say it’s okay, they say that’s how it should be. My new label has you relabeling you. Given labels. I guess they should be taken into consideration. For your consideration.
I’m not happy with this blog thing because it reminds me that for being friends we are no more than strangers with history. I recognize you in photos yet I have this understanding, deep down, I really don’t know. A blog is just a way to peek through a mostly considerably closed door. If you were standing in front of me, if you were here, this is what I would ask:
Do you still squirm in your seat, unable to get comfortable? I could sleep in a box, still.
Do you still see details lost to everyone else? I move with my eyes closed.
Do you still paint for You or is the intended audience hopefully Green? Color by numbers for me. Too rich for my blood you are.
Do you still put eye to lens and capture moments too beautiful for reality? I’m trapped by technology and locked out of sharing.
Do you still cook in that haphazard this-is-going-to-be-good kind of way? I have an affinity for hot-dogs and green olives.
I have gray in my hair and my eyesight is going. I weigh more but worry less. Life moves on. With or without.

I found a grave with your name. I’d rather have tea.