Ink didn’t leave
Even when I did.
It stayed at the edge
Of the table — untouched.
It splashed onto one of my pages.
I didn’t touch it,
I didn’t notice —
Pain arrives silently.
That’s when I found myself
Not staring at his eyes,
Not between his arms,
But
In between the lines.
The girl
The ink had been waiting for —
Finally between her fingers.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 1:16 PM UTC
Ink didn’t leave
Even when I did.
It stayed at the edge
Of the table — untouched.
It splashed onto one of my pages.
I didn’t touch it,
I didn’t notice —
Pain arrives silently.
That’s when I found myself
Not staring at his eyes,
Not between his arms,
But
In between the lines.
The girl
The ink had been waiting for —
Finally between her fingers.
I thought I had left poetry behind, but it never left me.
This piece is about finding myself again through writing
realizing the ink had been waiting for me all along.