Scrawls in the margins—
are a collection of torn pieces
that coalesce to form the map
of his brain.
In a quiet room, curtains drawn,
this typed line now under my finger
must have drawn spark from his heart,
a faint line eked out from his pencil
beneath the glowing words.
I run a soft finger over his scribble,
feel the slight indent of the lead
from doggedness of pressing,
see where the m’s become slanted cursive,
each waltzing into the next.
On a rabid hunt for secret messages,
I read lone underlined words
as if to create a sentence, feeling silly when they end up
“Lacquer translucence chrysanthemum
copper fog-toned lavish paintbox.”
I’ve mislead myself. On the epic journey
through typed and scribbled words
pencil has trumped ink.
I’ve decoded, encoded, traced, even laid my ear upon
the words as if up to a whooshing seashell.
On our next meeting he asks So how
did you like it and I stare blankly.
I say Oh you know it was great like you said
I say I bet you could’ve written it better
and laugh a bit to myself.