INK

A thousand disintegrating subtexts, a spill of textual light and limbic colours.

Ink on my hands.

A tapestry of texture, textile squares of fragment human red-rimmed emotion.

Ink on my body.

Move before you move, so a blurred halo shimmer outline of limb before limb.

Ink on my face. Soft blurry shroud not silhouette nor shadow, more a vivid falling of essential ends.

Like flare on film, exposed and maybe ruined or made beautiful forever.

Ink in my eyes.

Ink in my eyes.

Ink.

Ink.

Eyes.

Ink in my eyes.

Ink.

Ink.

Black ink.




the love letter collection