Underdeveloped

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.

 

 

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