The pencil waits for the breath to finish and touches the page. The soft roughness of the surface confirms that contact was made. In sliding motions its journey gives rise to a trace, a space made of folds and waves and interruptions, connected through intention by proximity.
The shapes continue until the pencil rests, remembering and assessing its dance, nourished, but yearning for more, already missing the touch and the swing, the textured passing of time, the perfect alignment with the line.
Now, in stillness, the page still shines, mostly white, reflecting the sunlight patiently. Warm and bright it remembers, too. The imprint might soften and the stain might fade, but still, for now and for a while, it has changed the page, has become part of its story.
“Does it miss me?”, the pencil asks. “Is it expecting my return?” It waits for the breath to become a sigh. “It’s just me, isn’t it.”
It touches the page and writes, “It’s just me.”