Prologue
I live inside the half-light,
my breath a circle drawn again and again
until it forgets where it started.

Body I
Every line remembers its failure to stay sharp.
Shadows teach me patience,
how to whisper in graphite dialects.
The page holds weight like a confession,
each curve of my snout a question mark in slow motion.
I stare forward, not searching—just existing in smudge.
Somewhere, the pencil trembles with empathy.

Body II
Darkness is never empty; it just moves slower.
I sink into my own contours like fog folding fog.
What’s left of light clings to my pupils,
a pair of tired moons rehearsing reflection.
If you look too long,
you’ll feel the pull of unspoken shape—
the gravity of maybe.

DADA-Break
oi nk oi nk oi nk
O I N K (in slow graphite minor)
ink—ink—ink—oink

Closing
I stay here in the hush between strokes.
Tomorrow, when the hand returns,
I’ll pretend to wake—
but really, I never stopped dreaming in grey.