Sometimes I think it’s ink that runs through my veins instead of blood.
I breathe stories and colors instead of oxygen.
I find nourishment in the small gestures,
the connections and essence I watch people leave in my wake.
His hand lingers on his glass,
flirting with the whisky drops left, flickering in the candlelight.
She smiles at nothing in the dim light of the bar.
They trace the grain of the wood on the table to avoid the answers staring in their faces.
Moments, shared human lives, as we live,
blundering through this reality.
Here I find my calm. Satiated, centered, floating,
I pick up a pen, open a vein,
and begin to bleed.
Le Raconteur 