She sits there,
as if the paper had drained her dry.
The cigarette holds itself,
the wine keeps thinking slowly inside her.

Lines go rogue —
none wants to touch the other,
yet all know:
they belong to the same fatigue.

The hand is a question
that refuses
to be answered.

Dada whispers from the glass:

“Drink me, and you’ll
finally forget by drawing.”

But she doesn’t laugh.
Only the smoke does,
curling into a face
she might once have been.

Between line and sip,
silence becomes posture.
And that is more
than meaning will ever manage.