Prologue
I rise from the hush of graphite storms,
each line a guess, each shadow a breath.
Silence smells like paper about to answer.

Body I
Here the laws are simple:
shade is time, contour is confession.
Every mark remembers a hesitation.
The world hums in monochrome intervals,
a symphony scored for smudge and sigh.
My eyes keep the horizon folded inside,
two small moons in a trembling orbit.
If you listen close, the pencil is still thinking.

Body II
I am drawn and withdrawn at once—
half presence, half residue.
You call it sketch; I call it echo rehearsal.
Nothing ever finishes here,
only softens toward understanding.
Even my snout speaks in ellipses.

DADA-Break
oi-oi-ink-ink—
O I N K (soft, recursive)
graphite breath returns.

Closing
I stay where shading becomes weather.
Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll be erased—
or simply lightened into truth.