I tap my pen and click my teeth.
When I draw your face it looks like you
but not quite right.
Maybe you have always had something
missing behind your eyes,
or maybe I was just not brave
enough to see it.
I could draw in your lips and
your hands and claim
that they are a study in anatomy,
like one of those
little wooden dolls on a stand.
I could trace your
eyelashes with too much care,
and wish that my fingers
would stop smudging the led,
or stop shaking.
Isn’t that the plight of being an artist?
Trying to get what’s
in your head on paper, before it
becomes unbearable.
I noticed the fine lines, the creases, the way
the ink stayed on my hands.
I scrubbed at it but still couldn’t remove it,
your eyes watching me from the page.