Robin Hawke

February 1, 2012, 2:03 PM
Filed under: Three Sentence Stories

Five years pass when I try again. I attempt a softer mouth; I loosen the shadows under your eyes; and I rub your hair with sandpaper.  When I am finished—no, never, I’m never finished staring at you—your portrait is mere proof of your presence.


3 Comments so far
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There is something a little creepy about this — maybe its just me? 🙂

Comment by Indigo Spider

It wasn’t intended, but there is something morbid about the way artists obsess over their work.

Comment by Robin Hawke

Maybe because in the quest to preserve life forever, we lose what defines it?
Don’t mind me, just musing here. Great little piece, to make me muse like this. 🙂

Comment by Kirsten

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