Black Dust

I brushed against the table where

his pad lay open,

and a stripe of black,

like a lightning strike of shadow,

bloomed on my sleeve.

Fine powder, soft as soot,

clinged to the weave.

It’s just charcoal, I told myself.

He’s always drawing.

But the smudge sat there,

a stark, matte statement

against the pale cotton.

And I wondered how much

of that darkness,

that deep, quiet black,

sticks to you,

even when you try to wipe it

clean.