Because I thought I’d find you there. Find you in every detailed line, each smudge. I thought I’d smell your skin on the page, feel your touch in every eraser shaving still pressed to the parchment. Thought if I could run my fingers over the charcoal, letting the black bleed into my skin, that I would finally have clarity.
But all I saw was that picture. That beautiful girl in swirls of black and grey.
The one who looks nothing like me.
Was it me who was lost all along?
Sometimes I wish I could ask you.
Take us back to when we were happy, unafraid.
But I came here to seek you in the art on the walls, in the pencil, in the face in the picture, unguarded and strong.
Maybe I didn’t come to find you.
Maybe I came to find myself.