Long before the alarm,
I fought the sandman,
wee hours in the morning,
kicking, screaming, driving
this stranger from our bed.
Missing you so completely,
he does not belong in your space.

The blankets worked loose
as I cried freedom from sleep,
grabbing an Eversharp pencil
lying at bedside, longing
to spill forth all the words.
I carry in my heart for us,
my soul crying out loud.

I searched the floor for paper,
drawing only blanks, dustballs,
a cat toy, a slipper, a stray sock,
still more Eversharps, 12 in total.
I gripped all as I took to the wall,
this giant empty space looming,
encouraging me to speak my piece.

I began to write and scrawled
until I could no longer find words,
and then I made some up,
drew pictures in further flesh,
sketching in shapes and angles,
aching I was, to describe you;
more than words is what I feel.

Tracing my own hands,
I found just the right way
to shade in my longing for you,
a deepening, a warmth, tangible,
as my palms were full to bursting,
laden with your gifts, grasping,
grabbing hold of this, for all time.

I used up all the Eversharps,
every single last one of them,
a spent 12-pack, drained free,
all the lead, pulsed through the pens,
every inch of graphite used up,
my Wall of You complete,
no erasures, everything holding true .

I longed for sleep then, exhausted,
a pile of empty Eversharps
with intact pink erasers,
lying next to my pillow,
feeling perhaps a chance nap,
but short, as I have done little justice,
describing this love by any stretch.

I have not exhausted all mediums
of expression, not yet ... not ever,
as I ready fingerpaints at bedside,
for when I next rise, hours from now,
you still fresh in my mind's eye,
locked so loud in my heart, boldly.
I still ache to express this completely.

Imagine, then, what's to become
of the ceiling in our bedroom,
as I strive to approximate in art,
a true expression of the intensity,
the desire to have and to hold always,
the sky in my world, forever,
painted the colors of you.