His Pencil

Hand-knitted dreams
are what I get
from sharpening
your pencil.

Maybe your pencil
doesn't really
like me
because it
never tells me
how you sketched
those cerulean skies
and those woebegone
Evening Primroses.

This night
smells like
those Primroses.
And I always
get the urge
to sharpen
your pencil.

But it's been
a week ago
(or maybe
a hundred
portraits ago)
since you
last used
your pencil.
Are you tired
of chasing
those drifting stars?

The fragrance
of these
sorrowful flowers
is slowly fading.
But the
loveliest thing
I've ever seen
is still
the way
you hold
your pencil
while sketching
choreographed lullabies
and deeply-buried odes.

Your storied eyes
are still
the same.
But they are longing-

longing to see you
hold your pencil
and start sketching
dreams again-

dreams that plant
blithe Evening Primroses.

I miss the
rustic sharpener
and the prayers
it makes
while your pencil
is being sharpened
to sleep.

The sharpener-
rustic but formidable.
Your pencil-
creative, admired.

You-

my prince,
my everything.