A Sketch

Here is your thought, re-woven into something more lyrical:

Between the hand and the waiting page
a quiet question breathes:

Is it the eye that reaches down
to press its longing onto paper,
or does the page lift itself
toward the gaze, hungry to be seen?

Pencil grazes, tentative,
then sure—
each line a whispered nerve
finding its twin across the white.

Logic wakes in the meeting of marks:
here a curve bows to angle,
there a straight path kisses its own return.
Edge finds edge like lovers
recognizing the shape of home.

Balance is not declared—
it arrives,
soft as breath held,
sudden as dawn
when the last connection
closes the circuit
and the project,
once mist,
now stands solid
inside the mind’s lit room.