Our paint drips and drools
down the page,
the marks of our hands
the lines of our names
bleed and blur together –
a mass of
indigo blue arms
clasping fingertips.

The reflection is lithe
a lustre of reminisces and hopes.
Nostalgia has a lot to answer for.

With your hand over mine
we trace the shape of our lives;
the lines
move together, across continents
towards ambitions and dreams.

The marks we leave in a trail
behind us like snails,
are pocked and disfigured,
incomplete in their intentions.
They are living and growing.
Like children
they grow without us.

The paint gives a heave –
a black sigh on the horizon.

The reflection
lies dormant in the night.


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