There on the low table, the drawing, you had once done for me. I cease panic and reach for it, curious to why its here, of all places. I know its yours from years away. its done lightly across the surface of the paper, grey dust settled around the edges and in the cracks where you kept it folded in your pocket. Your usual style, there was no indent in the grain, just whisps of soft lead, curling, stretching, threatening to leap from the white in a silver cloud. I told you to use hairspray but you were always too busy washing the stain away.
Instead, I am careful not to breathe.
She's swimming in the sketch, pursed lips, dreaming like an angel. Chin and cheeks submerged, tentacles of black flowing behind her skull. I thought it was me for a moment, before I realised. It looks so familiar, closed eyes, darkened slits, tranquil lids, floating faces. Is it not me? Looked for your mark in the corner just to make sure and there it was.
Bunched scribbles, the only hard in a trace of soft, Dog eared and crinkled.
It is not me, after all.
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