Ink finger

The ink on my fingers,

Sent to me a memory-

We sat by failing cinders

With a sky full of wonder.

We told stories, made cleverly

About what you never see

It felt heavenly;

Maybe it’s just memory

But it’ll always be

Like the ink that lingers,

On my fingers

That I warmed by dying cinder-

Voluntary,

Like a glass of tea.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s