Spilled Ink

nickamcknight:

I
 
This is what it looks like from the inside.
Look out from the corner shop picture window,
see it backwards. Watch it sit there, glowing,
spilling onto the street, welcoming strangers inside in that moment before
the bulb burns out. 
 
 
II
 
This is how it feels under a hundred pounds of
drums. An avalanche of beating hearts. Touch
your chest and feel its warmth. And this is how
it feels to jump through glass houses. Pull shards
out from your teeth, give them away like virginity
or advice.
 
 
III
 
This is what it tastes like on your pink tongue,
salivating and tart. Chew on the lean cut of it.
Swallow it like expired milk, or the morning light,
or a hornet’s nest.
 
 
IV
 
This is what it smells like just before the harvest.
The petrichor in autumn. Its wet, ripe flavor
wafting into the air like a chocolate factory going
out of business, giving out free samples.
 
 
V
 
This is how it sounds in a downpour. How it sounds
in a whisper mistaken for a rainstick. How it crunches
soft in your ears like white noise or how it cackles
loud like a chalkboard screech.
 
 
VI
 
This is how it falls asleep in the bathtub,
forgetting to scrub itself. This is how it inhales
like a newborn opening its eyes. This is the fabricated rain, the sharp heartbeat, the weight of glass. This is how it exhales brightest, in that
moment before the fire burns out.
 
- Nick McKnight