Sketches of you

You are the sketch that I have been exploring continuously since I meet you.
Unexplored pastels, unexplored dimensions of black and white.

I've told you ever since I meet you. I love those edges of yours, those violent strokes, those unfinished lines.
I feel in love with the sketch of you, because if you were complete I couldn't add fractures of me.
The beautiful thing is that we don't need to blend in, we'll stay incomplete and we'll face the world together whatever that may be.

The autumn of your leaving is permanent.
You're always absent in this sketch and I am permanently looking everywhere for those abstract strokes of you.
Staring longly and hoping that I'll find you at the corner of the street.
With a limping heart and a narrow view that contains a bruised emotional connection.
Meeting on streets that we didn't plan, getting in debt for borrowing the sky's drawer of colours.

Cover your mind with polka dots and let's escape.
But you are just like me.
A sketch and you won't leave your paper to blend in on mine.
It's paper and strings and pins that separate us.

Until one day your sketch will melt like an ice cube being dragged around in the sun.
In your last moments of consciousness you will see how the sketch of me got so monochrome.
It missed you ...
I lost you in the artificial and selfishness of becoming a piece of architecture.

It's pieces of you I could not catch.
As pieces of me they didn't match.