We are sketches on each others’ hearts,





Why you are afraid of lizards.

How many pairs of shoes I own.


The pattern of freckles on your back;

The scar on the inside of my wrist.


My ugly-cry-face when struck with sadness;

Your sigh of resignation.


Your uncanny knack for palindromes;

That ugly lamp I won’t get rid of.


My fear of dying without seeing Paris;

Your awe at the simultaneous brevity and vastness of time.


Our sketches may be eventually lain aside, and forgotten,

Finally thrown out with other pasts when it’s time to move on.


Or perhaps,

They will be recorded in ink,






To be framed and hung

In the permanent collection of People We Love.

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