I paint a sepia line, freehand,
my smallest brush, a barely
perceptible dot of water,
so the line’s edges shade into
a wash, the wash a shadow.
I lean down until my nose
almost touches the wet line,
the puckered paper, my back
curved, and I stare until
the line becomes you, my
memory adding your body
around the line, your geometry,
your curves, your volume,
your shapes and shadows,
your colors and softness,
your heat and sweet scents.
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