After you left

It’s been two years since we drew that bold line
and abandoned the canvas somewhere in the loft.
I gave up the easels. You let the brushes and paints go.
The dust took care of the rest.

Over time, even the need to prepare a foundation
seemed like nothing more than an evanescent reflex.

Then, all of a sudden, you were standing in my doorway
with the scent of turpentine and varnish,
which I could no longer recognise, even if I dared
to brush it with my fingertips.

After you left, I wondered, was it something else
or just muscle memory?

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