Ink

About that time, when you were mine, and words were words that came out fine. Italicised, in pink fine ink, gliding nicely, gliding sweet. That was before that day we met, the person who destroyed and set, the words in motion to go black, the scrawl ingrained, can’t be taken back. Soon these words, they’ll go quite blue and you’ll say “Oh darling, what happened to you?” Question the anger, the morose plate, that is too full for me to take. How can you start a poem fresh, when I lost my love who I loved best. How can I be about to dine, upon a pen so pink and fine. How can I trust one once so true, who turned my words from pink to blue like a freshly fallen strawberry bruise. How can I trust words pink to black which are too dark to take them back? I write this words upon my wrist with a black pen in one clenched fist. These words, oh words, my final wish. For those who love to stick to pink and not end up with wrists of ink.

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