Chalk is the image that comes to mind:
bloodless white, brittle, easily worn down.
Sitting in the close cafē,
watching her rest an arm on a chair
and numbly hold a cigarette,
I would allow myself to imagine
her fine lines not so much a sketch
as a medium come to life.
No one has seen her lately.
She has left her umbrella at Toby's,
the rent due,
and a curiously scattered set of slates
that no refinement of felt or sponge
can restore to a precisely original shade.