Paper

Before I press the nib, to the texture of a vintage paper, I think about you. I let your words chime, in the darkness of my hollow existence, I let your cravings rise up, to the surface of my skin. I let myself crumble down, under the weight of your impossible truth. A thousand capillaries bursting in my head. I let myself cry in your agony. Then I bleed; on your behalf. ...