It's nice when two hands fold down sheets
to ruin what was just made
for everyone to see but only one to touch
the canvas with endless sides
allowing us to trace each other
until the outlines become permanent
on that wrinkled sheet of
an unwritten story

There were no name tags to save the spot
that was seldom departed from yours
though I would have liked to take in
the heat of your exhaustion one more time
or notice how you panted after you braided our
outlines into one connected tie, showing defeat by
allowing me to slip into a coma
while you grazed that beating drum
trying to slow it down to show me
what we had just drawn.

Neither were artists but both craved creation
even if it was just sculpting what we had
into a crumbling statue to tell people
we were okay with living in a space that had
nothing to offer