I move lines.

I move lines of graphite,
tuck them into teeny white fibrous pillows.
Little dreamers that cradle their heads in the black of night.
Smooth them with my fingers.
Smudge them with my mind.
Follow my hands over this whitish substance,
rough against my own hand,
I warm it.

Untouched.

Oh what yearning ensues your presence!
To cradle in my arms the beauty you possess-
to hold all the light that which rests in your eyes-
perchance I could see that intangible thing that binds me to you.
What secrets we keep, to spare the foolish heart.
Of which has everything to say
yet is always silenced
by fear.

Blame the grey goose.

The most beautiful things are often the things we let go in order to keep them in our lives.