After a while, I feel so dizzy I can't feel my fingertips glazing over my skin
I keep feeling the pressure placed on my hips
and then the pressure settled onto my brain

I know it isn't fair for neither but embers come from your eyes
they were never to be blue like ice as you wished them to be
like the cold of your throat
when you speak with a dry tone that doesn't say a thing
no one emotion draws out from it

The only thing that reminds me of the embers of your eyes
is the charcoal on your fingertips, drawn to the papers of your
sketchbook pages

After I while, I feel so dizzy I can't remember how your name
use to roll off my tongue

I keep feeling the pressure on the temples of my head,
which is tilted forward to look at the ground at the mention of you
I wish I was so lucky, to be like you
if talents grew from trees, as a child you must have eaten all it's baring fruits
and swallowed down it's seeds too

I know it isn't fair for neither but the embers always fall
and I press them against my skin with my thumb

After a while, I am just a memory in a sketchbook.