Thinning my studio
I discover your unlined face looking into the future,
sketched with charcoal on lightweight paper.
My memory of you
a weak pulse
sealed away like a forgotten dimension.
I drop clear, blue, plastic bags to the sidewalk
sections of sky,
reported by pilots
“Wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
A (forgotten) charcoal drawing digitally contemplated.