another day is here and my hands are still covered
With a mantle of stoic ink
Words scribbled on a hesitant paper
Wishing to be read now not later.
I want you to see this point-like light from an abyss
Growing tongues tasting the wind
Feel like the knife scraping soft butter
And see that small things matter.
But i still have no sense of complete abandon
To let the ink burn, to let it leak
Until it forms a crystallized dew
Becoming, at last, your scar tissue.