Sketchbook

Sketchbook

You can tell he still loves her
by the way he shades
the muscles of her arm.
Careful sketches over rounded flesh.
She left pencil shavings clinging to him,
spider webs
grazing the top of his head,
woven into unwashed hair.

He looks for her in the morning,
reaches across a cold bed,
to trace her outline in
a head crushed pillow.
Not yet ready to replace these impressions,
or wash her scent from loose sheets.

He pretends he can hold her,
keep her safe, a green and yellow parakeet
nestled in his palm.
Head twisting back,
sharp black eyes reflect
his thick fingers around
her fragile frame.

He was so sure, despite
the sharp flick of restless glances,
the spit of tears from a cursing tongue,
the hollowness in the cage of her ribs,
she would keep.
So sure
he could reverse rip currents
pump air into languid lungs
resurrect the broken.

You can tell he still loves her
by the way he won’t catch your eye,
the small tremble in his voice,
when he says her name
and looks away.