Gray washed air
Made of tangled hair
My heart’s a scribble in your sketchbook
Yours is a page I can’t find
Snapshots of the work’s progress are shared socially, paired with poetic fragments. In this case, the fragment-poem is recycled from a letter sent privately. Opening these parts of myself on social media — the same place where she sees and even reacts to my posts — echoes the heartbreak of someone close now becoming like a stranger. Does her nostalgia pang in the same places, or have I fabricated my own memories of our relationship? Every progress post is a plea to examine the differences in our perception of the mythology we created together.
How long until these scribbles become knowable to the perceivers?