He'd often interlace his long fingers with mine,
Tracing the fragile veins under my skin
Like he was reading an old book.
Aching to remember my every word.
Every freckle
Punctuating my existence.
I flick the eraser shavings from my half-empty page.
Scribbling.
Frowning.
Aching to conjure up the serene way
He moved
Into finely tuned lines of poetry.
Sometimes I’d savour the way he talked to me;
The way his voice enclosed me in a rich euphoria,
The gentleness of touch behind tired eyes
My body pressed under the collar of his worn T-Shirt
Reducing me to a cascade of vibrant colours
With the weightlessness of his breath.
He'd bring me stories that had no endings,
Those he'd dreamt,
Until I’d set down my own paper
Littered with grayish graphite smudges and tired wrinkles.
Retired to its dusty nook of ballpoint pens and marker caps,
He’d wrap his fingers around my pencil
Placing it in my outstretched palm
His firm lovingness echoing
"Write"
Into every particle of my being.