38. Charcoal - G
The charcoal stains my hands as I make sweeping arcs across the paper, drawing a picture only I can see. The lines I draw, I know them by heart: the gentle curve of your face, the broad lines of your form... I’ve memorized your being overtime, and I use that knowledge now, drawing you as I remember. Your hands, rough and calloused, are one of my favorite things about you, and I smile as I start their outline, knowing too well all these things the hands have done over the years. I draw your eyes next, the gateway to your soul. Your cerulean eyes express so much, even when you don’t mean them too. They’re beautiful though, and when they sparkle I forget the rest of the world.
I hear you coming in the door downstairs, no doubt tired from your latest excursion. I quickly pack up my drawing stuff, hiding the half finished portrait behind my dresser. I don’t need the drawing now, when I can have you.