I remember when
I'd let pieces of charcoal
Fall from fingertips
I'd sit low to the earth
On dark pink pillows
Bent over so studiously
Into the form of the pages
That rested on a black and gold table
We would later throw all of that
Sacred furniture out
I know not where it lies.

Black charcoal was my favorite medium
My speaker turned up so loud
I'd lay in bed or hover over that table
And let the pieces of coal speak for themselves.

After a dust had settled
On to the pages I had whistled, wimpered
Sang right on in
tooooo
With nimble fingers the sharp parts of the coal and I would
Create visions, stories,
Characters
Really.

Perhaps the remains
Lay somewhere in the piles
Or another little one
Leans over the table
Tool in hand
Creating from the inside.