Ink infiltrates your roadmap veins
beneath where physical scars (almost)
streaming too close to the lentic trickle of blood that’s loyal enough to keep you alive
blood that isn’t unaccustomed to meeting the surface,
the shrouded ignorance of a world in cacophonous silence.
You ride too close to the sun.
(you’re gonna get burned)
I want to amass our collective koans,
initially inscribed in the recesses of what keeps me awake at night and asleep in day,
and keep them
carved into the back of my hand in yours
(I wanna get burned)