and i blended the days together using the sweat on my finger,
each hour a different shade,
each minute a hue that transforms into the next,
never minding the parts of me that got smudged along the way.
and eventually the rough parts of your departure started to smooth out,
each thought's power lessening,
each pain in my stomach easing into a dull ache,
never minding the knowledge that this is art that i would never finish.
this breath a prayer,
this painting an exorcism.
in and out we go,
the oxygen and the paintbrush,
until we become second nature
and i forget what it was to hold you
without a pencil piercing my hand.