where

The artist took his pen.




He drew circles around the times we talked.



It made beautiful bubbles,



light like air, delicate,irridescent-oil on clear,



a masterpiece.









The artist took his pen.



He drew stars around the times we've seen each other.



It made a unique constellation, shiny and electric in a dark sky,



leading somewhere,



a map of wonder.









The artist slept and he woke.



He wept on his knees.



For between the bubbles and the stars



he saw that there was no space,



nothing at all.









He needs to draw more.



He desires to draw and draw, on and on.



But where?