The water bleeds the ink and it drips in rivulets, the leak of a faulty intravenous needle. Uncontrollable mistakes like leeching of old, the letting of letters bridges the corpus callosum. He won’t romanticize, but Jack the Giant Slayer is passed out drunk on the corner, waiting for a passing john, and it feels too damn good.
The frothy mouth bubbles free with the tucked sighs from yester-year’s yesterday and when his eye twitches so hard the bough breaks, there’s a contentment tinged in the copper. A scent so strong, it breaks through the wretched stench of blood. Pale like snow but dark a log’s gut, his veins pour onto the paper and for now everything feels okay.