With pencil in hand and hole in stomach I go to work. Sit at desk and perform methodically, efficiently. A slow erasure of a long memory, getting longer as the sun sets. A blown out image where once you stood, rubbed out.
Two figures walk in distance, without color and speaking in muted tone.
Good for them. I don't care what is said, what is exchanged. I continue my work. They, now nothing, white blots, blighted landscape, nameless sky, moving further away. And still I work. You, like sky, nameless, sent away but not alone. I stay up all night, I undo lines, I rewrite, I begin again. Your image moves further, unrecognizable, unheard. The background, now bleached of color; bloodless.
I stare at page.
(Are those teeth marks around the edges?)
Your form, now diaphanous, translucent like looking through white rose petals in cold sunlight. What was your name, face? Hands, body, shape? Eyes, hair, scent? I don't remember but there, still, traces of an outline remains. More to do, more to do. I work through the day and the following night. I write, rewrite, tell and retell. I put words in your mouth then just as quickly cross them out. In one moment of weakness I attempt to reform your image but I don't remember enough to complete the task, so I begin again, the long erasure, marked over, covered over, reformed, melted down, torn up, thrown out and I’m not done yet.
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