hands smudged and blackened,
sliding across the page,
minute details,
smearing under the touch,
frustrated strokes,
across a pointed bone,
watching in distraction,
as she comes alive on the page,
sunken eyes and
the pop of a collarbone,
fingers placed just so,
no, fingers placed just there,
she stares blankly,
no, forlornly,
hands smudge across her breast,
fixing the imperfections,
sketching and erasing,
to make her smile
to pull her together,
bring out her life,
carelessly and carefully,
pulling at her skin,
wrapping muscle to her bone,
the jut in her hip,
hands smudging her into curves,
and erasing her sorrow,
turning her into fullness
and then starting again,
drawing her happiness, her sparkle,
with a cigarette dangling
so carelessly from lips
frustration creating,
the muse of the masterpiece
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem