Dear You,

It has been several years, and still, I hold myself.

I take my own hand, I keep myself cold.

I remember the warmth you gave me and it sickens me with sorrow.

I feel so drawn and sketched;

Did you draw my heart with your slender fingers?

Or did you sketch me out with that worn wooden pencil from middle school?

 

I wonder if you ponder about the rough doodle-

That doodle you made of a girl,

The same girl you made and created as your own.

Over some years, you took your magic marker and tried to recreate the mess.

I took erasers to discard the mistake you made, none of which could help.

 

Can you explain how you drew me? 

It all is nonsense: and over many years, I kept myself cold.

You left your trashed paper on the floor and walked away.

But your drawing got up and walked.

She learned and talked. She cried and whined.

And then, many years later, you saw your drawing become a beautiful painting;

Then, after you saw it blossom and flower, you claimed it.

 

That beautiful painting shuttered away and saw you as the discarded doodle;

A premature doodle that hadn't become a painting.

 

But she remembers how much of a doodle she still is. 

She is always going to be that rough-sketch doodle you drew.

 

From Your Rough Sketch,

Me