Inkheart
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I have two hearts. First, there is my chambered heart, my heart of flesh and blood, but beside that is my other heart. My other heart, I call my inkheart. It is my inkheart that beats when I turn a fresh page, confronting bleak and endless possibility. My inkheart seizes up when my pen drops dollops into white oblivion. My inkheart yearns for paper beaches to lie heaving and dry upon, having cried out all its words.
My ink heart sprouts tentacles in place of arteries, for seawater flows through my inkheart’s core. I hear the blood in my inkheart’s veins, a swelling sound; a room thrown wide, curtains fluttering. Trees bear all the twisted and bleeding torment of autumn. Strands of haunting sound fall like tears into the ocean. These are the sights and sounds my inkheart knows.
And with every lettered droplet, my inkheart shatters.
My ink heart sprouts tentacles in place of arteries, for seawater flows through my inkheart’s core. I hear the blood in my inkheart’s veins, a swelling sound; a room thrown wide, curtains fluttering. Trees bear all the twisted and bleeding torment of autumn. Strands of haunting sound fall like tears into the ocean. These are the sights and sounds my inkheart knows.
And with every lettered droplet, my inkheart shatters.