Wonderings of directional thrust; the pen wielder drags foots in fields of syrup. With each word comes a thousand thoughts, a thousand variants, a thousands simulations. The friction of shaping ornate letters enables a parallel process, where some second self maps the future. Is ink the well of poetry? Was it that obvious?

I’ve encountered a shadow of you

It was cold to the touch and it cut me right through

I’ve even seen a glimmer or 2

Of the magic you leave behind like dew

But I’ve never kissed you, I’ve never hugged you, I’ve never made a pot of coffee for you

Are you hiding, will you find me?

Should I stay put and find shelter til your rescue

Do I deserve you?

for the fi