Your writing, drawing I should say, is not
at all bad. You portray, I should say embody,
movement and drama. 
Your knife carves me, but peaceful, in high relief.
You lines become etched on my face as I age.
But why do you take me for a subject?
I feel you laugh at me and curse me.
Your love, I should even say your presence, 
is strange: it could go unnoticed.
Shadow, will you never leave me?