Far too often now, I find that
my lips are moving in time to the voices
from conversations that happened many months ago,
eyes drifting from this painting, to the original drawing
but they are no longer the same.
And I am shredded, stripped, no longer primed
for even the lean rigger brush leaves me torn asunder.
My hands are messy with the source.
And I wash it away, 30 seconds at a time,
until I worry there won’t be any water left
and still the stain remains.
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