new friends

perusing, I found that last piece:

dusty charcoal circles, slightly smudged

by your fingers, your artwork

forgotten on a shelf. I lifted it,

my wrists shivering, the pale white

lines and seven simple shapes.

I could hear the squeak of the charcoal sticks

on paper, the squeak of your voice in it. That

memory, dead in my head, has grown silent.

It will not speak, so I will

set your art aflame

on the cold asphalt and dry leaves

where it curls up and dies glowing.

– not alone, someone else

stomps out the flames. And then we roll away into the night.

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2 thoughts on “new friends

    • Absolutely. The fact that we use so frequently this thing which we cannot touch fascinates me. It’s so purifying and emotionless, it eliminates whatever it can.
      I’m glad my writing resonated a bit, for it was an intense moment.

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