By your forearms when you leaned over
To scribble on my pages and colour a few
To then leave them open and gathering dust
I found this often and I gathered the dust
With them built a bridge of clay towards love
It was always in a rain of irony that it broke
And drowned me in your absence's eraser dust
I would sometimes try shading on a few pages
With a pencil of thoughts and rampant longing
The tips would break and smudge the lines
Remind me of how the art in my heart has died
When you visit interim, even for a generic gaze
My book has flung itself open, rattling pages
It has presented each page as a blank canvas
For your gentle presence to draw as we age
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