The act of tracing, itself, is a love language.
Its one of the most selfless acts of study, (attention as the highest form of intimacy), where the tracer offers their own identity at the altar, surrendering.
Here, Iet me take a backseat, let my hand follow yours in time.
Let me hold the lines you once held.
Let me caress the paths you formed.
I, as the tracer, place you on the pedestal of the drawing board. The site of my making, but today you are the one who makes me. Each act from now on is an act of worship to history and time. History and time and actions, of you.
(The ‘you’ here refers to your own God, the landscape, your lover, the squirrel prints in the sand, the stars, the stones, your mother, you.)