All I know is the charcoal of my hands: it covers them in such a way that makes me believe the charcoal stain has found its way underneath. I draw myself half a city, until no part of me remains. I then look, so sorrowfully, at the broken landscape. All its harsh edges beg for attention, but I have to ask myself where all the real people are. I look all around, but all I see is you and I, on a charcoal street—somewhere we always wanted to be—hand in hand, off to wander together and gather up all the other real people we meet.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
All I know is the charcoal of my hands: it covers them in such a way that makes me believe the charcoal stain has found its way underneath. I draw myself half a city, until no part of me remains. I then look, so sorrowfully, at the broken landscape. All its harsh edges beg for attention, but I have to ask myself where all the real people are. I look all around, but all I see is you and I, on a charcoal street—somewhere we always wanted to be—hand in hand, off to wander together and gather up all the other real people we meet.
For someone I love very much. If you're reading this, you know who you are.
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