I take your hand, the brush askew, and I hold it in my own.
Together we find the palette, and we move to the canvas,
and there is nothing more. I am helpless. The strokes are foreign
to me, the vision incapable of forming. I cannot, yet I bear witness
to what was once so effortless for you, done without thought,
only feeling. A graceful glide, a deliberate dash, a final flourish.
They exist only in shattered memory, in brittle, diaphanous thoughts that render your gift irretrievable, leaving only the empty white.