Graphite against a flush warm sheet of white
Smothery from a huddle of thin gray lines
Misshapen to form an artificial image of me
Every stroke you give my simplest displeasure
Frozen, I watch you sketch this figure carefully
Your fingers lift a craggy mass of twig, a pencil
Look up, my love, look up again
But still, you look at the drawing
Every surface and curve you draw so well
So close, you form each angle of me so perfectly
So far away from me,
My shoulder, my hand,
Your head leans against the easel
Your face touches the paper where you draw
So far away from me, yet so close to another
So close, the tip of your pencil punctures my heart
And they both break with a hole on the paper
No comments:
Post a Comment