Soft, loud, loud.


What am I?
Not music, just the lines on a page. Yet depicting the pitterpatter of moonlight, music, lines, dreaming, all the same.
Soft loud soft
Gently in little strokes a delicate face emerges
         Loud loud
The night sings through my hand, darkening until no line is left unshaded, no place left
              unworked.

I wish I could draw really well

I could show you everything I can't express or tell

I could show you everything on my heart aswell

ink smudges stain
my callused
fingertips.

The way your pencil moves along the rough surface lightly at first as if it's floating just above it. The lines barely visible like footprints where fresh snow has fallen. The lines darken and take shape, your hand working more diligently now. The pencil racing across the vast landscape that is your paper, everyone who sees the result is amazed. But to you.....they're just lines on paper

I could trace patterns in your skin,
erase it like sand and start drawing again.
My hands would never get tired,
they would chase the sun and moon away.
Caressing you to sleep is a productive use of time,
muscle-memory repeating the designs of infatuation.
Lulling you into dreams with my fingers,
then waking you when the light creeps up the sheets.
Fingertips replaced with lips,
space between bodies closing,
skin is so addictive, especially yours.