4pm – eight – no title

just a single white sheet
torn from the artist’s pad
dust and lead smeared
and smudged, crumbled erasure
spread, a small tear,
crumpled in anger,
to be smoothed out, with
gentle hands, blended with
pastels or chalk, working
to complete, the image
of you within me
my fingers rub,
the smudges and lines merge
and you begin to appear
emerging in that sketch
rendered real,
a man from paper and lead

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