I scrub my hands raw against the sanded paper the
Pastels smooth the surface rough to catch The color 
and the pigment gets
Everywhere I am
So mad at art right now 

We drew down the endless days of Your last summer in our
Sketchbooks. Your hands were always steadier
Than mine
Your heart was always steadier

We showed each other our pages and we laughed and smiled and said,

“Wow babe, I love it.”

You fell down and scrubbed your knees and hands raw against the pavement and the Headline was BRAIN DEATH but
Your Right Hand Looked Broken And
It didn’t matter how I asked
Or how many times I asked
They wouldn’t check because
(And they didn’t say it, but)

Who puts a cast on a dead man?

So no more pictures.

And what of art, that it gave me comfort?
What of art, that it gave me answers during every other time before?
Now? There aren’t any fucking answers anymore.

I am still painting, because some stupid part of me won’t stop.
I am still painting, because for some reason that most of me can’t seem to remember, 
Some part of me still thinks it means something, but 
These pieces of pigment are just wisps
Outstretched, beseeching, somehow 
In this fog 
to find 
your hand.