there's blue smudges on the eastern wall
shaped like finger prints,
streaked down in sorrow-arcs,
curled around eachother like feathers on a wing
there's blue soft cover on my prayer book
noticeably fading off,
like how wind whisks away mountaintops,
just a bit each day, off to sea
there's a blue tint on my fingertips
sweat and softcover
mixed in fervent tfila
make a paintbrush of my skin
and a canvas of the wall
that i lean on when I can't stand
when I can't remember the words
when my body can't hold the yearning on its own
when i can't stand it anymore
there's blue smudges on the eastern wall
faint enough, you'll only notice if you look
prayers making a paintbrush of me
god,
please etch them deep, before they wash them away