Black Ink

Black Ink

Counting moments that make up a day on
one two three
four five
Six if you count the last

Running them through greasy hair.
Noticing a spattering of dark dots.

Higgins Waterproof Black Ink.

Slimy as an eel. As a leech. As black as a puddle on a New York City sidewalk. As threads of oil unspooling from a bird’s white wings.
Inky dots. Experimenting with an old medium. Staining the floor.

Eyes blurred at midnight on a Monday turned Tuesday.

Waking up with a dull thump coming from deep within my brain. Like walking past a house filled with music and people, sound bleeding through the cracks in the walls,
Pouring out as someone swings the front door open.
Bottling back up when the door slams shut.

A party, a blowout. An all-out rager pounding on fleshy pink folds.

Ping-ponging against squishy walls.
Tap dancing across neurons and synapses.
Speeding down narrow highways.
Spreading like black ink spilled on a white page.

I pour water on the issue.
Black ink turns grey, white page stays stained.

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