Pilot...

i bought a new pen. of the fancy variety.
fountain, i think they call it. they, Pilot.
navigator of words. you write to no one in your
Moleskin journal. such a pity.
your ink flows with no sound as if the paper has been buttered.
are there really words like these?
easy
flowing
silent
careless
breathless
if i don't keep writing, it will dry.
if i don't keep running, i will die.
how dare you write such dramatic words
with such an effortless stroke of black.
the ink crawls onto my skin like a vine
growing fast forward.
seeping through the cracks life has given me.
perhaps it will seep deep into my fragile blood
giving it the strength my body denies it.

this is for someone else. and the music plays between her ivory thighs.