You are blood-ink that spills across my paper,
stains these trembling-too-much fingers,
bruises my swollen lips and tastes like
summer wind, in all those 4:00 a.m. trees.
You first came, book in hand, sipping coffee.
Stories dripped steadily from your chin.
I watched hungrily, as your mouth bled,
gulped the words, like a river bed long-dry.
You’ve been here, spilling stories–
for one-hundred-and-fifty-six days.
I’ll sit beside you fifteen thousand more,
my heart wide — a blackbird’s throat.
I can’t quench my thirst for your words.
They cry in my chest — a winged cacophony.
Ink rages in my veins, and I’ll bleed out fast
— a murmuration, whirling from my pen.