We're made of ink, both of us.

We're dripping
it into public
sinks and all along
the sidewalks,
attempting to hide
the stains in our eyes,
our drenched and wrinkled hearts.

Poets are people without
much control.

A/N: You may have noticed my recent lack of writing. This is sort of bittersweet, as it's mostly due to the fact that I've been very happy lately. On some level I don't require this outlet so much anymore.