Ink

You can smell the decay from miles away

We were lovers caught in the Chinese finger trap.
Struggling to the asundered winds.
We knew the way these ways worked
Oh yes, we knew.
We knew too much and thus were we numb to the clicks.
Stutters were a blasphemy to our manifestos
Which gather dusty stains under our empty coffee cups and unwashed hair.
Holly was ever so curious to see the recent inkings
We threw her the works of a year gone by, the works that look so nice on a bookshelf, hmm?
The truth being that she could wear the bedsheet toga all she liked
It was still only one book on a naked shelf
The boy in the dunce cap in the corner weeped with a wanting
As that bitter word of "promising" stung our lobes as we struggled despite our label as lovers.
The days were stones that Dylan rolled our way and how we stared at his wake in the road
Envy furrowed brows that stood chained to the increasing domestication of the roadside diners we called home.
Waiting tables with our dead pens
And we were still stuck in the fingertrap
Even as Holly handed us the ink ribbon.
Our tongues a numbly muttering
Dead words, spoken once and sealed under a wax binding
As if to say, these are the words of a school of thought that is but lost to the thundered winds.
Yoko stood in the exhibit strutting that everyday that room eroded a little more
Weeks and weeks, boulders and boulders
Passing away through the hourglass desert
Until finally I opened my eyes past the struggling
And the room and lamps and you were gone,
Leaving the naked fingertrap.

Author's Note

Excuse the errors.