I fell in love with your handwriting.
A creased nothing on careless paper.
I could have stroked the loops and curls
as your hair,
every score traced
like a finger upon a back.
Gliding with a strength I’ll never have
to scarcely graze grey rules,
a navy scrawl between monochrome bars,
touching only to shoot away
yet coursing pages of real tracks
to end in a final stab.
Sometimes I think I’m that grey line,
when you come along
and whisk casual blue across my mind.