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February 6, 2012
You have a face drawn of charcoal. Your coal dust cheekbones are deeply shadowed, and your tearless eyes look bruised and hungry. I imagine an artist tenderly smudging the dark lines of your lips into softness, and I am intensely jealous of that intimacy. I want to touch every corner of your face--to know flaw, every perfection, every hidden detail.

But I am not an artist. My pencils know only the messy scribbles of words. I cannot capture your essence with shapes and colors. I am only a writer, and, my love, you deserve the hands of a painter.