Out of Practice

I used to be able to find the bone

under the skin with one long line.

I’d sit in the studio, entirely alone,

making the shadow and the light align.

But your jawline is a puzzle I can’t solve.

The napkin is too soft, the pen is too thick.

My hand has lost the old, steady resolve,

and the ballpoint ink is just a clumsy, black trick.

You’re looking at your phone while the coffee gets cold

and I’m looking at a mess of blue smears.

It’s a specific kind of grief to be told

how much you’ve lost in ten short years.