The world here has been drawn with a trembling hand, like someone trying to remember a face from years ago. Lines measure what can’t be measured: the distance between a tree and a loss, the height of a mountain and a promise that never arrived. Circles keep watch. A red sun is the last coin in a pocket that’s already been turned inside out.
The lake doesn’t speak, it counts. The small fall of water keeps time the way a bedside clock does when you can’t sleep, steady, indifferent, oddly kind. A rainbow thins to a scar across the sky and the math of it all, arcs, grids, clean angles, pretends there’s a cure for longing. I want to believe it. I want to believe that if you plot every point, the ache will fall in line.
So I stand off to the side, in the dark part of the canvas where colors hesitate. Maybe I’m just a dot out near the margin, almost nothing, almost forgiven. Night closes the notebook softly, and all that precision becomes one quiet blur. The picture holds without me, and still I keep looking.
