Another day is here and my hands are still covered
with a mantle of stoic ink
words scribbled on a hesitant paper
wishing to be read now not later.

I want you to see this point-like light from an abyss
growing tongues tasting the wind
feel like the knife scraping soft butter
and see that small things matter.

But i still have no sense of complete abandon
to let the ink burn, to let it leak
until it forms a crystallized dew
becoming, at last, your scar tissue.