Sometimes, I draw on your skin. I put myself, quietly, onto your palm in the form of curled letters and sharp patterns. Perhaps you think nothing of it, a simple annoyance when you try to brush your hair from your eyes and remember that I am hunched over you, lost in the shallow rivers that are the creases running across your hands. But I hope it means more. I imagine you feel the pen, moving with care, gently tickling you I picture you enjoying the warmth from my other hand holding my canvas steady or that you inspect each line, reading to much into every error that I felt too guilty for making. But when the next day, your palm is clean every drop of ink scrubbed off with purpose I stop romanticizing. You have erased me.