When I put my pen to paper
and try to conjure an image
the lines go all over: sprawling,
rough edges, that blur together
otherwise beautiful features.

But if you asked me, darling, to
draw your body? My memory
would come alive! I could clearly
trace the bend of your hips and *******;
could marvel at your slight-full lips,
outlined to the tee, much like your
smattered freckles (which, by the way,
add up to thirty — I counted).

So here I am: apart, lonely,
wondering how I can make these
fingers of mine abandon you;
how I can make it so each time
I miss you, I struggle with lines.