Your hand swipes furiously as you sketch the last remains of a sweater.
Lines.
Marks.
Messy, jaggedy, harsh lines.
Toppled over each other like pick-up sticks.

That girl has been on your mind.
The feel of the pen hard against soft fingertips.
Moving back and forth.
Lines.
Messy lines.

That girl.
The reason for this drawing.
You add her name to the cloak.
It is subtle but there.

The girl doesn’t seem to notice it.
You ask her to look a bit closer.
And.
There.
It.
Is.

Her name.
A hymn.
A prayer.
An answer.
To what?