Blotches of ink clung to his skin,
his weathered hands that ached--
he’d been writing all night,
but the ferocity and determination in his face
had slowly fallen into tired lines as the sun
splintered through his window
and the nighttime shadows faded into gold.
He had worked his hands sore,
and yet he held nothing for it--
for that was what covered the letter he was to send her,
his explanation of why it all went wrong,
and how he was going to fix it:
nothing.
from oneword.com: Blotches
Thanks for reading!
-Coral-
