He sees me as I move.
Every bend
and extended limb.
Every motion. He knows
who I am through and through.
He reaches for my arm,
an instrument in hand.
These pale hands of mine move not.
His hands search my inner corners, my creases and folds.
My secrets and my truths. My dark and light.
His hands know this motion well.
Finally, eyes meet
and the artist has completed his
marble girl.
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