Ink

I hear short tales, where you are nothing good and far from impressive and all imposing.

I try and see you diplomatically. But unfortunately, I feel you.

I feel your ache. The bruise ever-pressed. The expectations failed. The stale shock of chilled wine dripping into the dip of your shirt. The want for bleeding passion and settle for dry stability.

I stare. I can't help it. I want to know everything, but there is very little I can ask in the cage I am unsure how to free us from.

Your mouth raises on the opposite of mine dominantly. You scan like you're waiting for a threat that won't manifest but you'll cruelly deny looking for if it's acknowledged. Your hands are calloused from weight lifting and you hold a pencil funny, and with every trait, you become dominating in my mind.

I won't rewrite my story to fit you, nor will I try and force you to want my narrative. But you don't move away when I press against you, and you look a beat too long when you don't think I can see, and I think maybe you'd be happy to read the words your name constitutes.

You are not penciled into my life, you are the only thing that's written in ink.