I can smell the graphite on my fingers,
the curls of wood flake and drop
I deal in lines, angles and ratio.
You fight it everyday,
leaving tears staining your face
like an old tattoo,
or scar.
Our old patterns are no longer habit,
we shed our tears and laugh
we define our space as small
finding only little pieces to hold onto.
The graphite smudges,
the sun comes in
I wonder when next we’ll see
your sculpture
the spot on the river where we swim
the old couches in the alley.
We hold onto our promises
I keep the photo of you with me
whenever I falter I see you
and remember.
No Unsacred Places 