I remember my first encounter with him
not the first childish attempts of
what I now know is my full passion
but the first time
The time when I knew this was it
I remember the joy I felt
and holding him close to me
holding him
running my fingers over the mysteries
of his curves
and contours

And every now and then
when the confines of that
which I call my world threaten to crowd me
Almost a reflex I suppose, I find myself
drawn to him
For release into a world or worlds
where the walls don't always exist
and when I'm occasionally selfish
he doesn't mind
He seems to know the extent of the power
he has over me
Feeling a whole world of images
bound only by my imaginations
yet perfectly contained
within the movements
of as few
or as many
well placed strokes
from my soul

Nothing beats the feel
of a No. 2 soft