The first days are graphite afraid of lead, poisoning the lines we make before anyone can comment on their crooked nature. Our marks are heavy, dark, pitted and varied in depth given how close they are to being sharpened by another night, another movie, another secret. At some points, round indentations of indecision appear before the line picks up and moves on. Other times, ruptures where we pressed too hard splay out like finger tips from the path we believed we were following.
But inside the line, lines really, is an implied impermanence that says any time I want, I can wipe this away. Yet we both know that once started, erasure leaves its own traces.
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