In the evening she sketches me.
Throws down the lines of my body, shadows my contours,
builds my eyelids and knees.
With looping rounds she mounds my breasts,
scoops my stomach, scratches
my scars in groups of three.
Twisting strokes, she mashes my hair,
presses my lips beneath my long nose, chases
down my back, molds my shoulders.
My feet she massages into being,
my head she mounts, my tongue she inserts,
she places each weathered finger on my stumps delicately.
She flips the pages, and now
we are rolling, swimming nude and colliding,
rising out of a bed, beaching ourselves onto the moors.
The moors, she drew them.
And the moonlight she painted, and my gasps
she wrote in ink.
Our love, printed on pages,
a charcoal colored heart rendered in the shape
of birch leaves.
First published in Blue Pepper August 2018.