I sketched her, I marked her out. My shaking hands
could not do justice to her splendour.
With lines on my page, I reconstructed her form.
Her gaze was unnerving, the atmosphere, tender.
We ascribe love to such disparate experiences; she
moved me, this subject, but what did that mean?
The finished portrait contained no evidence of my
sentiments; my confusion, my longings, whilst
embedded, were left unseen.
They may well scoff at my artwork, but they never
felt her presence, so must let the subject be.
I sketched her and I marked her out and she left
the deepest mark on me.
Anna
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