Ink spills all over the table,
but I never see any design in it.
Maybe I am not looking hard enough,
or maybe too hard.
It is clearly better suited as decoration,
albeit a messy infatuation,
than any sort of inspiration,
fueling a dying desperation.
Even if it drips all the way to the floor,
even if it colors my skin,
I would love it all the more,
for taking my eyes from now to when.